


The Wizard and the Serpent

by Makkoska



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Drunk Sex, Getting Together, Getting drunk together, Human AU, Lucifer is an evil wizard, M/M, Mentions of Prostitution, Semi-Public Sex, a different Apocalypse, at least if Gabriel is looking, magical au, non-drunk and perfectly private sex as well, renegade Crowley, rule-following Aziraphale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:06:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23054434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makkoska/pseuds/Makkoska
Summary: Aziraphale has spent most of his life studying magic in the reclusive Ivory Tower, trying and mostly failing to please the Archmages. When he is assigned as the new Mage of the Court to serve in the Kingdom of Eden, he tries his best, but still gets into trouble. Luckily he receives help from a dark, mysterious and rather handsome stranger in dark glasses.Crowley should stay away from Aziraphale for his own safety. The mages have cast him out years ago, and befriending one is a dangerous thing to do. But he never expected to meet one who helps out women in need, one who's so fond of good food and wine and such a good companion. He also never expected to fall for anyone ever again, yet it happens.A Fantasy/Magical/Human AU.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 94
Kudos: 254





	1. Spring 1 – Eden isn’t a paradise

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been writing this quite manically in the last few weeks, but I’m pleased to say it’s written till the end, just need some heavy editing (and at parts rewriting) Updates should be rather fast.

The horse snorts as she climbs the steep slope. Aziraphale pats her neck gently.

“That’s a good girl,” he coos encouragingly. “I think we are almost there. What a journey, wasn’t it?” As if she understands his words, the animal doubles her efforts. Aziraphale leans forward in the saddle, both in an attempt to make the climb easier for his horse and to relieve the numbness of his backside.

The mare was assigned to him by the Tower, named quite impossibly _Phlogius_ after a famous familiar of some long-dead, unfriendly wizard with a penchant for fire and war. Aziraphale calls her Margarita, after the heroine in one of his favourite books. She responds to Margarita with curious ears turning towards Aziraphale’s direction, so he assumes she wasn’t fond of being called Phlogius either _._ She is a gentle, patient creature and quite affectionate with Aziraphale. During the rests and breaks he’s taken on the journey, longer ones he was supposed to, but the saddle has really been killing him, she kept pushing her nose against his neck, asking for a good scratch or just a friendly pet. Aziraphale has always liked horses and they liked him back well enough. It’s riding them he could do without. 

Especially if he is sent on an over three-weeks long journey through abyssal terrain. The headquarters of the Alabaster Mages was built in a place notoriously hard to get to - unfortunately meaning it was notoriously hard to get anywhere else from there too. Archmage Gabriel told him he was lucky to get a horse, so he didn’t have to walk all the way. 

Aziraphale admits it’s a lucky thing to be expected in the Palace by the first month of Spring. Gabriel isn’t known to be charitable, especially not with him. _No frivolous magic,_ he was reminded before he left. _Toughen up,_ was the only advice he’s been given for his new assignment.

He has a reputation to uphold, the reputation of the Alabaster Order, the organization of the most respected and powerful mages. The only wizards legally permitted to perform magic across the Nine Kingdoms. Aziraphale hasn’t done much as a contribution of upholding that reputation till now, as Gabriel commented. _You have a lot to prove._

“You are too soft,” the Archmage told him, as he was getting ready to leave. “No wonder your magic is mediocre - you spend too much time chasing physical pleasures. Look at that gut! This mission will do you good, Aziraphale. Will toughen you up, it will help you become a real mage, finally.”

“I’m sure it will,” Aziraphale agreed with him, forcing himself to smile, knowing that was the easiest way to get out of the conversation. “Thank you, Master Gabriel, for this opportunity.”

The Archmage rewarded him with a too-wide grin for his dutiful response, patting him so hard on the back that Aziraphale almost fell over. Gabriel was a large man, unusually muscular and massive for a mage of his status. He meant well, Aziraphale has always assumed, he was just so obnoxious about it. Being sent away from the Tower wasn’t a punishment, as Aziraphale’s peers assumed. It was a chance for him to live without strict supervision, and he was more than ready for that. The Alabaster Order took him in when he was ten, and in the almost thirty years since, he very rarely had the opportunity to travel anywhere. He’s not actually supposed to _want to_ go anywhere; a good mage is happy to spend a lifetime in the Tower, studying the arts. Aziraphale has come to terms with the fact that he wasn't a particularly good mage, many years ago.

The horse finally reaches the top of the slope and Aziraphale tugs on the reins gently, halting for a minute or two to take a look. The valley below is quite a site. 

Eden, the capital of the kingdom of the same name, the largest and richest one of the Nine, has a _Reputation._ It’s not a necessarily good or bad reputation, but everyone Aziraphale has spoken to about it had a very firm opinion on what it’s like. It’s the greatest city ever built. It’s a miserable place. It’s beautiful, it’s magnificent, it’s dark and grimy. Habitants thrive, people suffer there. There’s a chance for everyone to make their fortune. Only the rich can live well, while the poor become poorer by every day.

Aziraphale looks down, taking in the view of the city, thinking he’ll have to find the truth out himself. Eden seems huge, the walls stretching wide and far, but still not containing all the houses, as if there were just too many of them and they spilled out, like sugar from an overfilled jar. From his vantage point he can just make out the famous three circles: the inner circle with the Palace and the houses of nobles, nicknamed Heaven of all things, rising above the rest of the capital. The middle circle, stretching wide and far, where most of the city’s life happens. The notorious outer circle, which he heard being referred to as Hell. He’ll see soon enough which of the tales told about Eden proves to be true.

His heart speeds up in excitement. He’s almost forty, but he feels that his life is just about to begin. He nudges his horse forward, sending a quick prayer to any deity that might be listening, hoping it will be a good life.

***

The capital is even larger than he thought it was. It takes him forever just to ride through the farms and lands surrounding it. They are slowly replaced by rows of huts and tens as he progresses; dwellings of people who couldn’t afford to live even in the shadiest part of the city. He reaches the gates at last, wide open at this time of the day. The guards hardly spare him a glance. No wonder, there’s quite a traffic; a steady stream of people on foot or horseback, carriages, carts flowing in and out. Aziraphale is overwhelmed by the sound and noise, so he just stands to the side for a bit, trying to get his breathing under control. He has lived such a secluded life till now; this bustling city is both exciting and frightening. 

He reminds himself that he is an Alabaster Mage, more than capable of defending himself from common folk, and ventures in. From the maps he studied before his journey he knows he’s entering the middle circle. _Hell_ is not accessible through the main gate, laying in the backside of the city, out of sight. 

He slides down from the saddle, leading his horse by the rein. The poor beast seems just as confused by the hustle and bustle as he is but calms down after Aziraphale pats her head gently. She pushes her nuzzle against the mage’s hand as if wanting to soothe him in turn.

“Such a good girl,” Aziraphale praises her, just a tad of magic creeping through his touch and voice, until Margarita is completely relaxed and trusting. He could do with someone performing a similar trick on him too. He walks through the crowds, his horse peacefully tagging behind. Slowly the tension in him uncoils as he gets used to all the buzz.

There are so many things happening everywhere, he has the urge to stop and stare at every few steps. He’s never seen so many people at the same place, seemingly all aware of the steps of a dance Aziraphale is not privy to. There are rows upon rows of houses, shops, inns, pubs. A man tries to convince him to stop for a beer, another for lunch, a third one for a haircut. Aziraphale runs his fingers through his unruly white-blond curls and denies with a smile. He resists the temptation of food and drink with more difficulty. He reaches a wide square at last, the cobblestone hardly visible under the crowd of stands, people buying and selling all kinds of goods. A marketplace, unlike any village market he’s been to, before.

Here, Aziraphale loses all sense of time. He wonders from stand to stand, admiring jewellery, weapons, trinkets and clothes. He buys snacks, chilled fruity wine to drink. A vendor is selling books, cheap novels mostly, and Aziraphale looks all of them through, somehow restricting himself to buy only three of them. A boy, not older than fifteen, tries to nick his bag from where it’s attached to the saddle, but the horse is on her guard, swinging her head back, teeth snapping just an inch from his hand, so the would-be-thief runs away, and Aziraphale doesn’t pay him any further mind. 

He really needs to get going, he tells himself, clutching his new possessions with delight, before he sinks them in his bag. Gabriel would surely consider it a frivolous and unnecessary wizardcraft, the way he expands the inside space of the sack to make them fit but then, Gabriel is not here. Aziraphale feels giddy. 

He’s humming a happy little tune to himself, slowly nearing the other end of the market square when he sees the commotion. 

“Thief!” a man is yelling, making a grab at a slim figure. Afraid it might be the rather hungry looking boy who made an attempt at his bag as well, Aziraphale drifts closer. 

It’s not the boy, but the woman the merchant seized by the arm can’t be more than a few years older. She stares at him with wide, terrified eyes, clutching an apple in her hands. Her belly is prominent, but her limbs, barely covered in dirty clothing, are way too thin. The merchant, easily a head taller and twice her weight, is threatening her with beating, with prison, with getting her hand cut off. Aziraphale plasters on a smile, and steps in between them.

“I’m afraid this is a terrible misunderstanding,” he says. “That apple is for me. Would you be so kind, my dear friend, to pack me a few more. Some of those wonderful looking pears too. I worked up quite an appetite.” 

The woman tries to slink away, but he puts a gentle hand on her shoulder, and she stops, mesmerized, watching him as he gets some bread and cheese, a large piece of smoked ham, half a dozen of eggs and a basket to put this all in, from neighbouring stands. The merchants watch them with suspicion, but Aziraphale just smiles at everyone as he pays for his purchases. 

“Right then” he tells her, “lead the way.”

“Where are we going?” she asks, dark eyes wide with wonder.

“Wherever are you living, my dear. These are quite heavy; I’ll help you carry them home.”

She goes ahead without further questions. Aziraphale follows her, the horse behind them, without needing him to lead her by the reins.

As the streets become narrower and dirtier, she seems to come back at her senses. She darts him confused glances, taking in his pale clothes that are clean despite his travels, the gold chain of a watch leading to his pocket, his obvious wealth compared to her poverty. She looks like she would just run, if not for the basket full of food dangling on Aziraphale’s arms. 

“What’s your name, dear girl?” he asks, trying to put her at ease without further use of magic. 

“I’m Eve, sir,” she whispers.

“It’s nice to meet you, Eve. I’m Aziraphale. Tell me, do you have anyone around to give you some help? The baby must be due now any week, I guess.”

She nods, cradling her belly.

“My husband, Adam… He went to do work out on the field to get us some money. He… he will be back soon,” she says with so much hope and longing, she’s twisting Aziraphale’s heart further.

“I’m sure he will,” he tries his best to be reassuring. “I’ve just arrived in the city you see, but I’ll try to come around and see if you need any assistance till then.” 

She looks positively petrified by fear at that prospect. Not sure what he should do, Aziraphale tries to smile as harmlessly as possible.

“We’re here,” they come to a stop on a grimy, cramped street and she gestures to a tiny hut, squeezed in between similar buildings. She waves him in, so with a glance at Margarita, silently asking her to wait for him, Aziraphale follows. The cottage looks a lot better from the inside; small, but surprisingly tidy. It’s cared for, it’s a place of love, he can tell. He places the basket on a low table and is about to say his goodbyes, just to find the exit blocked by Eve. The fear in her dark eyes are replaced with determination.

“Let me say my thanks, good sir,” she whispers and slides to her knees in front of him, small hands reaching for the ties of his breeches. 

“Oh my. Oh my,” Aziraphale stammers, flushing red up till the tips of his ears. He takes hold of her delicate wrists and pulls her to her feet gently. “That really isn’t what I had in mind, dear girl. There’s no need for you to… Please don’t. Please, _please_ just accept this as a gift from a newcomer. I’ll … I’ll try to come by and see how you are doing, right? But please don’t…” he comes to a halt, while Eve just blinks at him uncomprehendingly. “I’ll be going now,” he says, and does so quickly, before she could get any other horrible ideas in her head. He doesn’t have any particular interest in women, but even if he did, he’s not the kind to take advantage of someone in a dire situation.

His horse greets him with a friendly snort, bumping her nose against his arm encouragingly. Grateful for the moral support, even if it’s from an animal, he caresses the smooth hair of her nuzzle. 

“What a day, isn’t it, girl? And we haven’t even seen the Palace yet.”

He wanders the streets of what surely is the outer circle, lost in thought until he realizes he’s lost in body as well. He looks around, not having any idea where he is, or how can he get back the road leading to the upper circle. 

“What a fancy coat,” an unfriendly voice says from behind his back. He spins around, to face three hostile, unkempt looking men, eyeing him with an alarming level of greed. His heart speeds up. What other mess will he get himself into on his first day in the capital? 

“What a fancy horse,” another man counters. “The little Lord is lost, maybe?”

“Nah, he wanted a tour in Hell, didn’he?” the third adds with a nasty laugh. The other two join in, stepping closer.

“We certainly can show him ‘round.”

“Show him how things are done down’ere.”

They are closing in on him, the grimiest looking one grabbing the front of his coat. This alarms him more than anything else; Aziraphale is a man who takes pride in his clothing and the pale colours he wears to represent the Order he is from. He’s sure the man’s dirty hand will leave a stain. He could stop them with magic, but taking down three men won’t go unnoticed like calming his horse, or a scared, hungry woman can. He’d need to file in a report about what he was doing in the outer circle in the first place, anxiously wait for Gabriel’s response telling him how disappointed he was in Aziraphale, and probably he’d make a fool of himself in front the Empress too. 

Before he can decide on the best course of action, someone else joins the scene.

“I’d let him go, if I were you, Hastur.”

The newcomer is tall and dark; a man dressed from head to toe in black, save for the wide, red sash that embraces his thin hips and waist. He commands Aziraphale’s attention to a degree where he all but forgets the thugs threatening him, even the one grabbing onto him with dirty hands. The mysterious stranger saunters closer, all sharp hips and long legs clad in tight pants and a knee-high boot. Aziraphale drags guilty eyes up to a face framed by fiery red hair tied back in a half-bun. His eyes are covered up with tinted glasses. 

“Mind your own business, Crowley,” the filthy brigand who’s presumably Hastur growls, but Aziraphale can hear the hesitation in his voice. 

“Well, it’s your call,” the man shrugs, “but this gentleman here is obviously a mage of high ranking. You might find the experience being turned into a toad thrilling though. Would be an improvement to your current state, for sure.”

“This pansy, a mage?” Hastur sneers, but he does release him. “That’s a bad joke, Crowley.”

“I assure you, I am,” Aziraphale says offendedly. Not for being called a pansy, he can admit that he _is,_ and he was called worse. What he is tired of is people dismissing him because he doesn’t live up to how they imagine a mage must look and act.

He dusts his coat off with irritation until the grimy smear on the soft, cream material vanishes. He hopes it will be enough - Transformational Magic is extremely difficult and extremely forbidden to practice, so he can’t really metamorphose this Hastur and his nasty friends into a toad or anything else fitting. 

The little trick is not lost on the thug, but he still seems more wary of Crowley than he is of Aziraphale. The wizard can’t blame him; he’s happy to admit the black-clad man strikes a rather more imposing figure than he does. Hastur glances at his partners in crime, who already started to back off, and seems to come to a decision.

“You’ll pay for butting in like this,” the threat sounds rather empty, considering the next moment they all turn tail and run. Aziraphale beams a smile at his saviour. 

“Thank you,” he says earnestly, “that was very kind of you.”

The man’s face does something complex at that, starting off as a sneer, ending with raised eyebrows. Aziraphale can’t hope to read it, especially not with those glasses in the way.

“Don’t mention it,” he says as last. “What are you doing here anyway, looking so… well-off in these clothes and with that horse? This is Hell, mage, in case you didn’t know.”

“Oh I... got lost I guess,” Aziraphale feels a spark of annoyance, but tries not to show it. The man just came to his rescue, after all. “I don’t think the clothes are anything special, though.”

“Believe me, here it _is.”_ The man closes the space between them in two long steps. Aziraphale’s breath hitches; he’s being ridiculous, but he finds the stranger incredibly attractive. “I guess you’ll have to be more careful next time in your choice of clothing, when you chaperon pregnant women through this part of the city,” he says with a sarcastic smile. He’s tone is gentle, teasing.

“I… well. Are you her husband then? Eve’s?” How unfortunate, he thinks. At least for him. Eve’s a luckier girl than he thought. 

“I’m nobody’s bloody husband,” he snorts. “She’s just an acquaintance. I wondered what on earth a posh-looking Alabaster Mage could want from a misfortunate woman from around here, so I checked on her. Your grand entrance to Hell didn’t go unnoticed, you know.”

“I didn’t want anything, really,” Aziraphale sighs. “Mr… Crowley, was it?” he asks, although he remembers the man’s name just fine. “I really do thank you for your help, but I need to be going now.”

“‘S just Crowley. And yeah, she told me so,” he doesn’t make any move to get out of the way, tilting into his personal space just enough to keep him on the edge. He can’t say if it’s a deliberate thing or not; the man has a funny way of moving he noticed, as if his long legs and sharp hips are not fully under his control, if the elegant curve of his back would bend rather on its own will. It’s dangerously captivating to watch. “Thought it strange, a mage from the Ivory Tower wandering this circle of Eden just to help a pregnant beggar, but… stranger things have happened, I guess.” He leans in even closer, and Aziraphale’s heart skips a beat. He mentally kicks himself; getting so enthralled with a man he just met, what on earth is he thinking? 

“An angel of the highest order,” Crowley murmurs as if to himself. “I recognise one when I see one.”

“Certainly not an angel,” he protests, unsure if he’s being made fun of. “Certainly, not from any high order. I’m Aziraphale,” he holds his hand out, and takes half a step back, putting some distance between them.” Crowley raises an eyebrow over the rim of his glasses but reaches to accept it.

Before their hands can touch, Margarita flattens her ears and jerks her head up high, stomping one hoof on the ground threateningly. 

“Hey, what’s the matter with you, girl? I’m sorry, she is usually not this unfriendly.”

“Horses don’t like me,” Crowley smiles roguishly. “I’m not a huge fan of them, either. Come on then, angel, let’s get you out of here.”

There’s the question if he should trust this alluring stranger. Aziraphale ignores all obvious reasons why he shouldn’t and follows him. There’s something about Crowley that draws him in, and he hopes it’s not just the attractiveness of the man. That would be awfully shallow of him. 

He leads Aziraphale through narrow streets which gradually become wider, rows of dingy huts replaced by three-store houses, looking more and more well-kept as they progress.

“You know the capital so well. Really awfully nice of you to help me find my way back, Crowley,” he breaks a not uncomfortable silence.

“No problem at all, angel.”

“Aziraphale,” he corrects, frowning slightly.

“Aziraphale,” the man repeats dutifully, smirking at him. The mage’s breath hitch at the way his name sounds on those lips. He’s really being incredibly silly about this, he chides himself. In his own defence, it has been a very long day. Also, he doesn’t frequently get smirked at by handsome men, who call him angel. It was due time he left the seclusion of the Tower. He has been missing out on a lot.

“Were you born here?” he asks, hoping none of his thoughts reflect on his face. He doesn’t want Crowley to think him too weird.

“Nah, but I lived here for ages, really. An interesting place, I guess. You’re gonna be stationed at the Palace, of course. Not sure how that’s like, ‘s not for us, common folks to know.”

Aziraphale darts him a sideway glance.

“How do you know I’m heading for the Palace?”

“Come on”, Crowley laughs, teasing, but without malice, flashing white teeth with quite sharp canines. He’s charming. Aziraphale smiles back, before he catches himself and quickly rearranges his expression into something more neutral. “A newcomer from the Ivory Tower? You are obviously the new Mage of the Court, aren’t you?”

“You are very perceptive. I guess I am that,” Aziraphale admits with a sigh.

“You guess?”

“It will take some getting used to.”

Crowley comes to a stop at a wide crossroad. They appear to be in a rather expensive neighbourhood of the middle circle, or maybe they are in Heaven already, as there’re not so much as houses around them anymore but mansions, bright and ornamented, with high fences guarding them. The paved road leads upwards, between rows of trees just starting to bloom, to the gate of the Palace.

“There you go,” Crowley waves a long arm at the general direction of the royal residency. “Best luck with all that getting used to thing.”

“Well, thank you again, my dear. I hope I can see you around?” he adds before he can think better of it. 

It’s difficult to say what Crowley might be thinking, with those dark glasses covering his eyes. Both of his eyebrows rise high above their rim. He looks surprised, maybe even caught off guard. He nods slowly.

“Yeah… yeah, I’m sure I’ll see you around, angel.”

He turns with a brief bow of his head and swaggers off. Aziraphale mounts his horse with a sigh; shifting in the saddle as he tries to find the least uncomfortable position for his much-suffered buttocks. He can’t help one last look back over his shoulders before he rides up to start his new life. 

  
Crowley is standing further down the road, staring at him. When he realizes Aziraphale is watching, he turns around quickly and hurries away.

_TBC..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Master and Margarita might not be Aziraphale’s favourite book, but it is mine. But you never know, maybe he named his horse after the flower. Or the cocktail, I wouldn’t put it past him.


	2. Spring 2 - Fallen from grace

Crowley, for the major part of the last ten years of his life, has been content. It took him so long to get to where he’s now, he worked so damn hard for it. He has everything he used to lack: comfort, money, a stable living. One single meeting with an Alabaster Mage shouldn’t unsettle him this way.

But unsettled he is. A week has passed since the unexpected encounter with Aziraphale, and he’s struggling to find his inner peace ever since.

There’s a new mage in the Palace, he thinks. So what? He’s never spread a second thought to the old man who served there before, till his death a few months ago. He never saw that man up close. He didn’t know of Crowley’s existence and for good reasons.

Not that he’s so infamous that a random city wizard would know who he was. The new guy certainly didn’t have a clue, and why would he? The apprentices in the Tower didn’t really know each other and Crowley was cast out from the Order almost twenty years ago.

He didn’t even go with a bang, like some did. Like Lucifer did.

He sighs, wanting to be angry with Aziraphale for stirring up memories he so carefully repressed, but managing to be frustrated only with himself. He should have known better than to talk to him. He _definitely_ should have known better than to take a liking to him immediately. 

He knows the Alabaster Order, he spent nine years of his life with them. He considers them a pompous, self-righteous, rigid bunch of bastards. He doesn’t want to think any of them as _good_ or _nice._ None of them have been anything remotely good or nice to him in his youth.

As one of eight brothers and sisters from a poor family in an unremarkable village in the countryside, the chance to join the Alabaster Order seemed like a gift from the divine. His mother told him so, wiping off his tears, telling him to be brave, telling him how proud she was of him. He was seven at the time, but he knew what it meant to his family to feed one less mouth. As it was custom, the mage who discovered him having the talent gave a few silver coins as a compensation to his parents. He knew he was doing them good, yet the slim pouch the wandering wizard placed in his father’s hand made him feel as if he was some object, bought and sold on its owner’s whim. 

It wasn’t too bad, at first. Life in the Ivory Tower was easy, compared to his old one in the village. The food was plenty and nutritious, although not too tasty. He had a warm bed on his own that he didn’t have to share with anyone. He wasn’t expected to do any hard labour. If he did something strange, like moving items without touching them, nobody looked at him with fright in their eyes.

He did miss things, of course. He missed his siblings, the freedom of late afternoons, his mother’s tales, the fresh air. He had new rules he had to adhere to; stricter ones than at home, ones that didn’t make much sense to him. He asked why they were so. He learned he wasn’t supposed to question things. 

Crowley didn’t like that. He liked to understand why things were the way they were.

He was assigned to study under a Master with two other boys. Being too friendly with his peers from the small group was frowned upon. Talking to other novices assigned to other Masters was strongly discouraged. Leaving the buildings of the Tower to wander the fields surrounding it was considered a waste of time, just as exploring the building was. Talking to the non-wizard staff was labelled barbaric. If he laughed, he was shushed. If he cried for his mother on dark, stormy nights, he was told he was being ungrateful, not appreciating the opportunity he was given.

He learned to read and write but reading anything but books on the magical arts was a waste of time. There were very few things they actually forbid him to do, but if he did anything that wasn’t for helping his studies to move forward, he was met with deep disapproval.

He learned a lot, but he was still bored most of the time. He was told, time and time again, that he asked too many questions, that he needed to accept the Archmages’ directions without hesitation.

Years drifted by, uncelebrated and unremarkable. Crowley was classified a talented but unruly novice, a troublemaker even. His peers avoided him, in fear that they’d be labelled the same if they got close.

Then shortly after he turned fifteen, everything changed. He met Lucifer. 

The Tower, despite its name, was much more than just a steeple. It was a huge complex of buildings, new bits and pieces added to it by countless generations of mages. In the circle of them was the gardens, usually looked after by the non-magical staff.

He never expected to find a mage working outside, a young but grown up man not squeamish about rolling up his sleeves and breaking a sweat. He stood on a small ladder, tending a tree that bore the most beautiful apples Crowley had ever seen. Overcome with excitement to meet another rebel like him, we went and talked to Lucifer - and sealed his fate.

Falling for him was the easiest thing. He was brilliant, handsome and smart. He questioned everything, the workings of the Order, the types of magic they banned, the rules, the knowledge of the Archmages. He encouraged Crowley to question things in turn. He praised him for having doubts. He was a fully qualified mage, a quite unheard accomplishment for someone in his early twenties. He was a prodigy, equally admired and feared by the leaders of the Order. 

Soon enough he took Crowley to his bed and made painful, beautiful love to him. Young and naive as he was back then, he was ready to do anything for him after that. He would have died for him happily, if that was what he asked for.

When Lucifer was cast out, he didn’t ask Crowley to follow him. He didn’t ask, he didn’t wait for Crowley to offer anything. He just disappeared. Crowley had only learned later, as he was rather indisposed at the time. A magical experiment he braved on Lucifer’s encouragement went wrong. He knew it could happen but assumed Lucifer would be there to help him if needed. He was wrong.

Lying in the infirmary, he heard all the rumours. Lucifer was experimenting with dark magic, the gossip said. Necromancy. Summoning demons. Enslaving souls. 

How much of it was true, he couldn’t tell. He knew Lucifer wasn’t squeamish about methods he could increase his power with, firm believer of means justifying the end he was. 

His own dip into forbidden magic was nothing compared to what they accused Lucifer with, but because of their connections he was persona non grata. Even if it caused no harm for anyone but himself. He overstepped his boundaries one times too many. He hung around the worst kind of person. There was no place for him in the Order anymore.

Archmage Michael, his master, waited for him when he finally recovered and was released from the infantry. She had a bag in her hand - Crowley’s belongings. He was not to enter the Tower or cast any magic, ever again.

As much as the Tower frustrated him, it was also the only home he knew for a decade. He didn’t know the outside word. He had no idea where Lucifer went, he didn’t leave him any note.

He crawled back to his village, just to learn of his mother’s death from years ago. Nobody in his family knew how to read or write, they couldn’t think of any way to notify him in the Tower. They never expected to see him again, anyway. Once a novice joined the Alabaster Order, they weren’t to return to their old life.

His father had a new wife and two new sons. His older siblings all moved out to start their own families. The village was no place for a renegade mage. He moved on.

He can’t say how he ended up in Eden, the capital of the kingdom of the same name. He visited so many places before, he was just too tired to wander any further. _Hell,_ they called the outer circle of the city. It sounded like a place he could belong.

He was seventeen, alone, and in dire need of money. The only thing he knew how to do was magic. Risking his life, he kept training himself every day. The Alabaster Order didn’t kill its cast outs. They were holier-than-thou and very clear about how they don’t want blood on their hands. However, they declared it the worst crime for anyone who left the order to cast any spells and encouraged everyone in the Nine Kingdoms to kill anyone they caught practicing. 

Officially, nobody but the qualified members of the Alabaster Order were supposed to do magic. Unofficially however, there has always been a need for services of wizards who weren't picky about jobs they did. Who were difficult to trace back. Being a rogue mage wasn’t a badly paid profession, but it was a dangerous one. He had to be careful. 

Building a network was slow in the making, and in the meantime, he made a living in any means he could. Petty thefts, physical labour or if there’s was nothing else left to do, selling his body for men with the taste. They weren’t easy times, but Crowley, for once, was responsible for his own fate and he learned to appreciate that. News of Lucifer reached him; how he married Lilith, queen of the small Seventh Kingdom, and how he launched a few, surprisingly successful attacks against other realms. A year before, he would have run to him, would have begged him to allow him to be in his presence, for the chance to serve him. Luckily, he grew older, smarter and knew better. He saw how life in Eden was, learned how everything had a price. Lucifer had no need for him, never had. It was a revelation to realize, Crowley didn’t need him either.

Miserable years have become bearable ones, until slowly but surely, Crowley has made a comfortable living. Nowadays, he can afford a nice flat on the first floor of a decent enough house, has his clients who know the value of being confidential. He can allow himself small luxuries, nice clothes, two pairs of boots, good wine. He has everything he needs. All painful, dirty, exhausting jobs paid off. He no longer needs to take a commitment he doesn’t want. He’s where he wants to be.

And then Aziraphale wanders into the city to shakes his carefully built world.

Crowley spots him long before he makes his move. He can recognise a member of his former Order when he sees one, and the man is easy to notice even in the crowd of the market. All those pale clothes, a bit too stiff, too good quality for travel. The wide-eyed wonder of someone who hasn't seen much of the world before. The well-mastered power that Crowley can feel on the back of his tongue when he walks past him. The man doesn’t glance at him. Crowley learned to disguise his own magical signature long ago.

_Angels,_ the mages are called mockingly behind their backs, but this man does look like the servant of gods painted on frescos in temples Crowley hasn’t visited in ages.

Blue eyes, pale skin, almost white hair. He looks innocent, though surely, he isn’t. He knows how the Alabaster Order is. How the lawful mages are. There’s not much of their humanity left in them, not after decades of doing nothing but studying and practicing the arts, repressing everything that’s considered a hindrance on their quest to power.

Then this angelic looking mage helps Eve, without wanting anything in turn as she tells Crowley. Anything at all. _He must have been sent by the gods,_ she whispers.

Crowley very much doubts that, but he still follows the man. He still steps in when Hastur and his nasty friends threaten him.

He tells himself it’s just curiosity. It’s not an everyday occurrence that a mage helps a pauper. This Aziraphale - maybe he’s better than your average mage. Or maybe he’s just a bit dim-witted. He thanks Crowley so earnestly for helping out against scum like Hastur, although surely, he could have easily defended himself. 

Meeting him, introducing himself isn’t the wisest thing, but there’s no harm done in the long run. Aziraphale moves into the Palace, and by all likelihood, Crowley will never see him again. His predecessor has hardly ever left the upper circle, after all. They will never meet again.

If he keeps thinking about a bright smile, curly, light hair and ridiculously blue eyes, it doesn't mean anything at all, does it? It’s just a temporary thing, that will soon pass. He was just thrown off balance for talking to a lawful mage after so long.

Crowley will just forget about him. 

He almost manages to convince himself when, just in two weeks’ time, they meet again. 

***

He spots Aziraphale on the marketplace, picking fruits into a basket and chatting happily with the merchant. He should walk away, but instead he slides through the crowd easily, stepping up next to him just as he pays with shiny coins.

“Fancy running into you here, angel,” his words come out smooth, cool and he’s proud of himself. Aziraphale jumps a little in surprise, which fills Crowley with the feeling of mean victory, but then he smiles at him in a way that makes his knees weak. 

“Crowley! What a pleasant surprise. I had no idea how I'd find you in a city this size.”

“Were you looking for me?”

“Well yes, I’m rather hoping you can show me to Eve’s house. I brought a few things for her, but I realized I had no idea how to get there. Quite silly of me. The baby hasn’t been born yet, has he?” There’s a moment of disappointment over being needed only as a city guide. He smirks to hide it.

“Do you think I keep track of every pregnant woman in Hell?” He draws himself to his full height. He has a few inches on the other man. Aim for cool, unaffected, he tells himself. He needs a favour. Use that to your advantage.

“Oh, I thought you’ll surely know?” Aziraphale looks up at him with hesitant hope. Crowley deflates, forgetting about cool and unaffected in an instant. 

“Well, yeah, I happen to know this one. Nhhh. No, not born yet,” he mutters. Aziraphale beams at him.

“Would you terribly mind leading the way there, my dear boy? If you don’t have anything else pressing to do of course.” 

Dear boy. _Dear boy!_ The man must be around his age. Crowley should feel insulted, but instead he is just lightheaded. No, he doesn’t have anything else to do, that is to say, he just happens to have a bit of free time. Otherwise he’s quite a busy man. But he can lead Aziraphale there this time. No, no, he doesn’t need thanks. There’s nothing to thank, he was thinking about going for a walk anyway. 

“Let me buy you lunch at least, once we’re done,” Aziraphale offers hopefully and he says yes. Of course, he does. He’s helplessly gravitating towards this silly little mage. If he didn’t know for sure he hasn’t, he would think Aziraphale cast a spell on him.

“How’s life in the Palace?” Crowley asks as they walk the streets. There’s no clear distinction between the middle and outer circle, it’s rather a slow decline in how the houses, the streets, the people look like.

“It’s...nice,” Aziraphale doesn’t sound convincing. His hands flutter in front of him, twisting into each other in a nervous gesture, making the basket bump into Crowley’s arm. He’s probably too close, leaning into the mage’s personal space two much, but he won’t step away. “The Palace is just lovely. Very… rich. Beautiful. There wasn’t much luxury in the Ivory Tower, you know. That’s where I’m coming from,” he adds. Crowley just hmms something resembling an agreement as if he hasn’t known that already, happy to let Aziraphale ramble on. “The Palace is nothing like it of course. It has a library. The library is really nice. Not as large as the Tower’s was, but nobody but me seems to use it much. Then there’s all these people I haven’t got to know yet, nobles, servants, guards and whatnot.”

“You don’t like the place,” Crowley states the obvious. 

“That’s not the case!” Aziraphale protests. “I just thought I’ll have more to do, you know. That I’ll be more _useful._ But,” he adds hastily, “I’m sure it’s just a matter of time. Getting used to each other.”

“With the Empress?”

“Oh, I haven’t even seen the empress yet! You’d think I did, after two weeks, with me being her personal mage!” he exclaims. “But no. There’s this man, Metatron, _The_ Metatron - I couldn’t yet figure out if that’s his name or a title. He is _The Voice,_ and he tells you what he says equals what She would say,” he casts an apologetic glance to Crowley. “I probably shouldn’t be talking about all this.”

“Don’t worry, angel,” Crowley smirks. “Your secrets are safe with me.”

They talk about safer topics till they reach Adam’s and Eve’s house. Best places to eat in the city, mostly. Crowley has never cared about food, but he knows where to get his booze. Surprisingly enough, Aziraphale is equally interested in that. Maybe they relaxed some of the rules since he left the Tower? That seems unlikely.

They reach the miserable little house that’s their destination. A tall, strong man greets them. He’s definitely good looking with his smooth, dark skin and with his powerful build, but Crowley never really liked Adam. He’s more muscle than brain, he doesn’t share the curious nature of his wife. He looks them over dubiously. He’s not fond of Crowley either, ever since he tempted Eve for a night out. That was before they got married though. Adam never seemed to get that even though Crowley enjoys he’s wife’s company, he’s no interest in competing with him. She’s just not his _type._

Aziraphale seems obvious of the glare directed at them.

“Oh, you must be Adam,” he chirps joyfully. “How delightful to have you back.”

“Aziraphale here,” Crowley injects when this statement is met with grim silence, “insisted to bring you some stuff.” He twitches his head towards Adam’s direction and Aziraphale gets the hint, handing the basket over. 

“What’s this?”

“Just some treats for your lovely wife. I met her when you were away and promised I will be coming back for a visit,” at this point the mage seems to notice Adam Is not overjoyed to find them on his threshold, as his smile gets forced and he’s twisting his hands together again. Crowley resists the urge to reach out and place his palm on them to stop their distracting movements.

“What were you doing around my wife while I was not here?” Adam’s voice is low. Dangerous. He’s ridiculous in his jealousy – Crowley thinks it’s obvious Aziraphale is not the type to woo pregnant, married women. Or any kind of woman, if he’s not mistaken.

“Ah, nothing really. We just thought it would be nice to bring you a little present. Nothing substantial, I’m afraid.”

While Crowley’s mind tries to process this sudden upgrade to _We,_ Eve finally appears in the doorway. Her belly is swollen as if she could give birth in any minute. She takes the scene in with wide eyes, Aziraphale in his fancy coat, twisting his fingers nervously, Crowley trying, but probably failing to look cool, and Adam, towering over them, glaring daggers at them both.

“Oh, good sir,” she gasps, stepping in front of her husband, who’s a good head taller than Aziraphale, could and probably would happily lift him by the throat single-handedly. “I never thought I would see you again.”

“My dear girl, we're just… We were nearby, and thought to check up on you,” Aziraphale stammers, completely ignoring the basket dangling from Adam’s hand, evidence he’s not telling the truth. We’ll be going now,” he puts a hand on Crowley’s arm and tugs gently. He follows as if he was being led on a leash. “I hope you have a smooth delivery,” the mage adds before they turn tail and hurry off. 

They wander the streets aimlessly in silence for a while, Aziraphale leading him by the arm, and him quite happily tagging along. When the mage finally stops and releases him, he shakes himself as if woken from a dream. He’s being ridiculous, he knows. Aziraphale has him mesmerized. Maybe he’s using magic on him after all, and Crowley just lost his touch and didn’t notice?

“Good gracious,” Aziraphale sighs, unaware of his companion’s internal battle. “That was truly awful. I feared he'd knock me out if we stayed a minute longer.”

He chuckles nervously. Their gaze lock, and Crowley’s lips twitch upwards as well. The next instant they are both laughing.

“My dear,” Aziraphale says as they wind down. “I have to confess; I have no idea where I was leading you on our mad escape. If you know where we are, and if you are still amenable, you could take us to one of those nicer pubs you were mentioning. I could really use a glass of wine, right now.”

He is, of course, amenable. The glass of wine quickly becomes two then three. Aziraphale gets a bowl of stew as well and tucks it in with so much gusto as if they didn’t feed him in the Palace. 

Crowley, pleasantly drowsy on the rich, red wide, leans forward, chin propped up in one hand on the table and watches him eat. A still somewhat sober part of his mind tells him he’s being an idiot. He had many lovers before, for pleasure, for money and out of other interests. He’s never felt anything like this, not since Lucifer’ flame burnt him so. That was supposed to teach him a life-long lesson. Yet here he is, getting drunk with a stocky, fussy mage, nurturing a growing heat in his belly as he listens to the content noises Aziraphale makes as he polishes off his bowl. He crosses his long legs and tells his mind to shut the fuck up. 

“I’ll get you dessert,” he offers and stands up without waiting for an answer. The inn has some pudding, and Crowley thinks it will be the most delicious torture, watching Aziraphale lick it up from his spoon. He gets the fourth glasses of wines for both of them, too. Whatever the current guidelines are for mages with regards to alcohol, he doubts the Order would encourage them getting drunk with a stranger. Aziraphale doesn’t seem to care at all, and Crowley silently adds it to the list of things he likes about the man. He already has a list. He’s utterly fucked. 

He puts down the plate and cups on the table and sprawls on his chair, arms and legs not fully under his control anymore. His shin pushes against Aziraphale’s. The mage shoots him a look from under his lashes that Crowley’s drunken mind interprets as coy and doesn’t pull away.

“Aren’t you eating anything?”

“Nah,” he waves an arm around, trying to convey that he doesn’t care much for food generally, and eating right now would require too much of his attention, and he needs that for watching Aziraphale, so it wouldn’t do. Luckily his mouth remains shut. “Just have your pudding, angel, and tell me more about this Metatron guy. He sounds like a real wanker.”

_TBC…_


	3. Summer 1 - One night in the city

“... as for the plumbing project, running water has now been installed in 70% of the inner circle’s and 10% of the middle circle’s houses. As a consequence of that, the price of property in the close vicinity of the upper circle has increased by…”

Aziraphale sighs and goes back to his thoughts. Today’s meeting started off better than usual - they were discussing the Summer Solstice festival coming up in two weeks, a topic that he could actually contribute to, a rare occurrence. That was very much at the beginning of the meeting, as it was deemed the most important item on the agenda for the week. 

After that things go as usual, so he spaces out, hoping it will all be over soon. He zones back in every ten minutes or so, just to make sure they are still not talking about anything where his input might be required.

They call it the Weekly Advisory Meeting, although they aren’t advising the Empress on anything. She hasn’t attended the meeting since Aziraphale is here. The Advisors are pretty self-organized, though if they receive questions via The Metatron, they prioritize those. 

That rarely happens though. The Advisors are used to running the day-to-day operation of the kingdom and its capital. Most of them are fairly competent in their fields of responsibility, fulfilling their roles unsupervised for long years. From plumbing to public safety, trade deals with other kingdoms, tax incomes from the countryside, they knew what their roles are exactly. They argue, they form pacts. Few of them are honest, hardworking people, others are rumoured to take bribes and transfer money to their own pockets. Whatever was the case, together they governed the kingdom rather successfully. Aziraphale, as the Mage of Court, is expected to attend all the meetings, despite not having much, if any role in the daily operations.

He tries to get involved, of course. He offers his help in educational matters; he is a well-read man, surely his input could be useful? The Advisor of Schooling and Education, a pleasant, older lady, smiles at him gratefully, thanks him for his offer and then declines him. The conversation goes along similarly with all the other Advisors he talks to. Thank you, noble mage, but no, we don’t need your help.

Aziraphale’s predecessor held the position for a good sixty years, apparently not lifting a single finger under all that time. He died at ninety-four, an old and withered man who hardly ever left the palace. His position had to be backfilled because Eden has _always_ had a mage assigned by the Ivory Tower. The Order is well respected in all, or almost all kingdoms, but they rarely get involved in daily politics. Aziraphale’s role is mostly to represent on formal events. He’s expected to stand next to the Empress when there are foreign delegations visiting, for example. Only, the delegations are dealt with by the relevant Advisors nowadays. Aziraphale is living in the Palace for almost three months, but he was yet to even see the Empress. 

Some days he wonders if she even exists.

That is an uncharitable thought, and Aziraphale tries to chase it away. He’s found himself in an easy and comfortable life here in the Palace, and he should try his best to be grateful for it. He knows Archmage Gabriel considered his assignment - maybe not as a punishment, but certainly as a reprimand for him not being very useful in the Tower. Truth to be told, he was happy to have moved to the capital. And look, if nothing else, he is at least tasked with orchestrating some magic lights for the Summer Festival. That’s better than nothing. He enjoys creating pretty things. 

Aziraphale comes back to the present when he realizes the Advisor of Foreign Affairs has been talking for a while. He assumes it’s about the ideal present Eden needs to send to the wedding of the youngest princess in a neighbouring kingdom – something the board just couldn’t come to an agreement on the last two meetings. Surprisingly enough, the topic for today is grimmer. 

“...has been quite active lately. We must consider what these… _aggressive foreign politics_ King and Queen Morningstar are practising mean for us. I’d suggest sending some reinforcements to the border, at the very least.”

There’s silence around the table as everyone digests this.

“Are we talking about war, Mr Dowling?” Anathema, the young Advisor of Health and Hygiene voices their thoughts at last. Aziraphale quite likes her; she’s outspoken and one of the very few who didn’t decline his offer for help straight off, rather just asked him time while she considered how could he be of use. 

“Yes, Ms Device,” Dowling admits with a sigh, “I’m afraid we are. Since her marriage to King Lucifer, Queen Lilith has been increasingly aggressive in her demands, claiming many of the border territories on the basis of them legally belonging to the Fourth Kingdom. These claims, at the very best, have always been disputable. Given how small the Fourth Kingdom is, Eden hasn’t been a target… yet. But it’s not a secret that Lucifer Morningstar’s powers keep growing. Years ago, we were assured by the Ivory Tower that their rogue wizard is not capable of causing serious upheaval, but… times are changing.”

For the first time since he’s started to attend these meetings, all eyes turn to Aziraphale. He clears his throat.

“Erm, yes. I’ll send a message to the Archmages of the Order. I don’t personally know Lucifer or the circumstances of his excommunication, but they should be able to share information we need to prepare our defence.” He has heard rumours of course. Everyone has heard the rumours. They said that Lucifer was the most powerful novice of the Order since Archmage Michael. That one day he’ll become even stronger than her, or that maybe he already is. 

Lucifer, who never followed the strict rules the Order has set. He dabbed into dark, forbidden magic. Necromancy. Evocation. Blood and sex magic. He was cast out and he fled. He ran until the Queen of the Fourth Kingdom gave him shelter. Her country was small, but she was ambitious. She gave him much more than shelter; she shared her bed with him, took him as her husband, gave birth to his child. 

Aziraphale has always considered him kind of a mythical creature. Someone you hear about in folklore but will never meet. As for war, he found that such a vague concept. He read about them of course, all the great wars of thousands of years. But he’s been lucky to live in a time of peace so far, at least. 

He pens a letter to Gabriel and climbs the many steps of the Pigeon Tower. The envelope is too long and heavy for such a little messenger to carry, so he shrinks it with magic, adding a protective spell, so it will catch aflame if anyone unintended will try to open it. He caresses the pigeon, willing it to fly fast and strong. So many spells for a message, his old master will surely chastise him for them, as he always does. 

He spends some time at the top of the tower, even after he can’t make out the pigeon against the sky anymore, looking down at the capital. He tries to care about Lucifer and this war he’s bringing, but the threat seems so unreal. He catches himself thinking about tomorrow. It’ll be a Saturday, and on Saturdays he’s meeting with Crowley. 

He smiles, his forlorn mood all but forgotten. 

After that unpleasant meeting with Eve’s husband and the very pleasant drunk afternoon in the pub, they started to make a habit out of meeting for some food and drinks regularly. In Aziraphale’s case at least it is food and drink; Crowley seems to live purely on alcohol. It worries the mage, the other man is way too thin, so he does try to push food over to him as frequently as possible. Crowley sometimes indulges him, and that always feels like victory.

Yes, so he has this thing with Crowley, and it is becoming a problem. Aziraphale knows this, just prefers not to deal with it.

He is - attached, for lack of a better word. Physical attraction and even acting on it is not explicitly forbidden by the rules of the Order. Some of the Archmages even consider it a necessity, like eating and breathing, for keeping their bodies a healthy temple for their minds.

Preferring other men over women was all right too. Aziraphale still has nightmares about the night when Gabriel caught him in the stables with his pants around his ankle, a servant of a visiting nobleman on his knees before him, sucking his cock with enthusiasm. Later, when Aziraphale was appropriately dressed, though still wanting the earth to open up and swallow him whole, his master just sneered at him with mild disgust. _At least there’s no danger for you to get a woman pregnant, is there?_

No, that particular kind of danger never threatened Aziraphale. All the mages were encouraged to find impersonal, fast joy, with no strings attached. Affairs with permanent staff of the Tower were prohibited. Affairs with other mages were banned. Lasting, romantic relationships were absolutely not allowed. It was one thing to release the tension of the body. It was an altogether different story to be distracted from duties and studies because of another person. 

Aziraphale is physically attracted to Crowley, and if he reads the signs correctly, the attraction is mutual. The man is handsome in a roguish kind of way, with his red hair and sharp smile. He wears those atrociously tight pants, which sometimes makes it hard for Aziraphale to keep focusing on his face. He has an air of mystery around him, with the dark shades he wears all the time, even at night, even indoors. The way he usually dresses in all black, with just a hint of silver or red, adds to that air. If Aziraphale asked, maybe he wouldn’t say no to having sex with him. Just a night, and they could go on their separate ways afterwards.

Problem is, Aziraphale doesn’t want _a_ night. He wants a series of nights, where they could try out all the steamy, messy, lovely stuff the mage has daydreamed about, lying in his bed with this hand on his cock, stroking himself with frenzy to his fantasies about Crowley. He also wants their dinners, their night outs, _their dates_ to continue. He wants Crowley to show him the capital, to enjoy his snarky, sarcastic comments, his vicious humour that doesn’t spare anyone, gods or men. He wants to learn more about the man, to know his past, his plans for the future, what he does as a living; answers to all those questions Crowley _always_ evades. He wishes he could take off those dark glasses to see his eyes finally. What colour would they be? Would he look at him with the same longing Aziraphale feels for him? 

He wants to undo the knot in that red hair, see it flow around his face freely, wants to run his hands through it. He wants to kiss that lovely, cruel mouth, wants those sharp, white teeth to bite him, those long fingers to slide under his clothes.

Gods above, he _wants_ so much these days. 

Some days he wonders why he holds back. _Who would know?_ Gabriel or the other Archmages are not here. It’s not as if anyone is keeping a tab on what he’s doing. Other days he gets scared. How can he even think about breaking the rules so profoundly? He might be flexible about some of the guidelines, especially around food and alcohol, but he has never been a rebel. And let’s be frank; Crowley’s mysterious behaviour, avoiding Aziraphale’s questions on anything personal, keeping his eyes hidden all the time - they are all red flags which Aziraphale is aware of, just chooses to ignore. 

He’s a fool, but tomorrow is Saturday and on Saturdays he’s a happy fool. 

***

They visit Eve when Crowley hears she has given birth to a boy. Other than fruit, cheese and bread, Aziraphale has different kinds of things on his shopping list he deems useful for a young mother with new-born. 

“You obviously have never been around a baby,” Crowley points out when he buys a blanket, a couple of wooden toys, fruit preserves, milk, a rubber thing that the merchant assures him is very good for children to chew on and different bottles of lotions. “They don’t need all this stuff, just their mother and her breasts. I have three sisters younger than me; I know.”

“Oh, hush now,” he smiles, enjoying himself too much, “and help me carry these.”

“Just imagine the joy on Adam’s face when you present his wife all these things he could never afford to buy, displaying your wealth.”

“Errrm, yes. That’s a concern. I haven’t thought of that. But this is for the little boy, right? He will be happy for the help, I’m sure.”

“He will be absolutely _delighted,”_ Aziraphale just _knows_ Crowley is rolling his eyes behind his dark shades, but he follows him, nevertheless.

As it turns out, Adam is so excited and proud of the birth of their son, Cain, he forgets to glare at them or flex his impressive muscles threateningly. He even lets Aziraphale hold the baby, which he does for about five seconds, quickly passing him over to Crowley, who looks quite an expert in holding such a tiny, fragile creature. 

Three younger sisters, he said. Aziraphale wonders how many other siblings he has, if they live in the capital, if he ever visits them. So many things he doesn’t know about the other man. He hopes he will have the chance to learn all his secrets.

***

“The point is… my point is… ducks!” Crowley announces triumphantly. 

Aziraphale blinks, making his eyes focus on his drinking companion with some difficulty. He stopped to even pretend following what the other man is saying minutes ago, and now struggles to respond.

“What about ducks?” he asks carefully.

“Everything’s about ducks!” Crowley waves his hands in agitation, toppling their bottle over, his long arms no longer under his control. Aziraphale saves the wine from spilling out with a quick spell. Crowley’s attention suddenly zooms in on him. Funny, how he learned to tell, even though he never sees his eyes.

“Well, m’dear fellow,” Aziraphale slurs, words tumbling together drunkenly. “I like a duck well roasted with orange, but otherwise… no clue wha’you mean.”

“How can you still do it? Magic? Like that?” Crowley points at him, not helping to pick up the duck thread at all. Aziraphale clutches onto the bottle and pours themselves another generous portion.

“Like what?”

“Like... absolutely wasted? You ain’t supposed to drink alcol…alc… booze at all, nah?”

“I can hold my booze better than some people,” Aziraphale protests with a pointed loot at Crowley’s erratic hands.

“But you’re a mage!” Crowley exclaims, earning them a few glances from other patrons. Aziraphale shushes him. “Don’t you have to keep your mind clear and all that stuff? Not to be under the in-flu-ence,” he drags the last word out, looking proud at managing such a difficult expression.

“Well,” Aziraphale says carefully. “They don’t explicitly forbid me to drink. ‘S just not recommended, you know? But it’s ok, I have my wits around me. Saved the wine too. Couldn’t have done it if I was _drunk,_ you see?”

His argument would never convince Gabriel, not when it is a challenge to keep his eyes focused or to properly articulate words. Crowley stares at him dumbly for a long moment, then breaks a slow grin.

“Damn right,” he’s tone is appreciating. “Cheers to that.” He raises his glass. They drink. It’s one of those long nights. He shouldn’t find it so entertaining, getting drunk with Crowley, but he does. Admittedly it’s not the healthiest way to spend a Saturday evening, but he never had a friend before with whom he could just let all his guards down.

They stumble out late, it must be well past midnight. The streets are quiet and empty, and they do their best, though sometimes fail, to be quiet. It’s the beginning of the summer, the nights are still a bit chilly. The fresh air helps, so Aziraphale exhales deeply, smiling stupidly up at Crowley. 

He’s looking right back at him, he can tell, despite the glasses. He looks serious for someone drunk on gods-know how many glasses of wine. Embarrassed, Aziraphale turns his head away.

“You know,” he says as they walk towards the Palace. Crowley always walks him to the outskirts of the upper circle. “This was fun.”

“Fun?”

“Fun. You are… pleasant company, my dear.”

There’s silence, so he risks a glance at the taller man. There’s a small smile at the corner of Crowley’s lips. He looks pleased with his clumsy compliment. 

He should be too drunk to get aroused, but his body obviously doesn’t care about what it should or shouldn’t do. It’s not a pleasant feeling at all, the way pure _want_ slams into him, leaving him breathless. He’s known Crowley only for a few months, and knowing him isn’t even the right phrase, as he doesn’t, not really. Yet it feels like they are dancing around each other for an eternity. Aziraphale has never been very good at resisting temptation. 

He stops to lean against the wall of the nearest house, taking deep breaths, trying to get himself under control. It takes Crowley a moment or two to realize he’s not walking alongside him anymore. He swaggers back, heels of boots clacking on the cobblestones, hips doing their indecent dance. He’s in tight pants, as usual, a low-cut, wide sleeved black shirt tucked under a wide, dark sash, shamelessly displaying slim hips, long, lean legs, and the quite obvious package he has between them. Aziraphale notices all these details, he always does. They do little to help his self-control issue. 

“Wha’sss wrong?” Crowley leans into his face too much, slurring on his words. He braces himself against the wall with one hand, right next to Aziraphale’s head. Maybe he’s really drunk. Maybe he likes being so close to him. Maybe he’s just a bastard, who enjoys torturing drunk men lusting after him.

“Nothing,” Aziraphale lies, “just a bit dizzy.”

“Yeah, way too much wine. We should’ve known better,” he doesn’t move away. His other hand lands on the lapel of Aziraphale’s light summer coat, his fingers running over the smooth, beige material. Crowley looks at it as if he's not quite sure what his own hand is doing. His fingers slide up, to the neck of the mage’s shirt, winding into the tartan, silk scarf he wears there, undoing the knot way too smoothly for someone who drunk so much wine. Aziraphale lets out a very shaky breath. Crowley raises his head and time seems to stand still for an endless moment.

He’s not sure who moves first. Maybe they both do at the same time, meeting in the middle. Crowley’s lips are on his, gentle and hesitant only for the first few heartbeats. His pulse speeds up as the kiss deepens. Crowley pushes him against the wall, draping his long, lean body against his as Aziraphale wounds his fingers into his hair, freeing half of the red locks from the bun they are tied into. Crowley moans into his mouth, thrusts his hips against Aziraphale’s stomach. He’s just as hard as the mage is.

Aziraphale does his best to wedge a thigh between the other’s legs. Crowley gasps, lifting his head, humping it mindlessly, before he comes back to his senses, at least to a degree.

“Are you…” he rasps, voice rough with arousal, “tell me you are… as well.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale gasps, although Crowley is already reaching down to confirm it himself, palming his erection through his breeches. “Oh gods, oh Crowley, if you do that, I’ll…”

“Yeah, yeah, please, Aziraphale. Me too…”

They rut against each other, out on the dark street. With a last conscious effort, Aziraphale waves his hand, the one not in Crowley’s lovely hair, weaving a spell that makes them less visible. Not an invisibility incantation; that is way too complex even when he’s not drunk and horny, just a handy trick that makes people less likely to notice them. Crowley’s head snaps up. He’s panting, mouth open. His eyes must be wide behind his glasses, Aziraphale thinks. He can’t see them, but he desperately wishes to. He also knows it might ruin everything, if he would try to take the shades off.

“What… how can you still… _Aziraphale…”_

“Kiss me again,” the mage commands, and Crowley obeys with enthusiasm. His long fingers manage to weave their way through the laces of Aziraphale’s pants and pull his hard cock free as much as the clumsy angle allows. The mage would like to return the gesture, but there’s simply not enough space for that between them, so he lets the back of Crowley’s head go to grab onto his bony buttocks with both hands. That’s apparently a very welcomed thing to do, as it makes the taller man buck quite violently against him, thrusting against his thigh with increasing fever.

It goes fast and messy, grabbing each other where they can reach, panting senseless words, _yes, please, more, there, I’m there._

Crowley trembles as he comes, his head pushed against Aziraphale’s shoulders. His fingers go lax for a moment, then tighten against the mage’s cock, stroking with intent. Aziraphale’s orgasm rushes through him, spilling out onto Crowley’s wonderful hand. They still grab onto each other, supporting, so they can manage to stay upright. Aziraphale feels lightheaded, spent, but far from being content. With the mad rush of arousal leaving his body, his senses return. He feels regretfully sober. 

It’s not getting off against Crowley on a dark street that fills him with disquiet, even if he feels vaguely ashamed about the act. But he knows this will make everything more complicated and he likes simple, straightforward things.

How could just this once occasion be ever enough? How could they go back to friendly banter and innuendo over dinner, of desperate wanks over fantasies in the safe loneliness of his bed? He wants to get to know Crowley, and he wants Crowley to know him. He wants to spend long nights in bed with him, making love, talking, laughing. He knows he can’t have any of that.

As if sensing his thoughts, Crowley pulls back. His face is unreadable, glasses still firmly in place.

“Well. That was a thing.”

“Indeed,” Aziraphale chuckles nervously as he tucks himself back into his pants. He’s sticky all over, his come is dripping off from Crowley’s fingers, who doesn’t seem to be able to decide whether he should wipe it off on his dark breeches or not. Not that it would matter much, not with how the front of them is stained already. Crowley has rutted against him until he came in his pants. The realization is a bit of a wonder. Aziraphale flushes, even though that’s rather ridiculous after all that happened.

He snaps his fingers, making all the mess disappear from clothing and hands. Crowley raises an eyebrow at him.

“You have quite a unique way of using your magic,” he drawls. He sounds as sober as Aziraphale feels. 

“I… ahh. I think there’s no harm in having it help you with practical things.”

They walk in awkward silence. Crowley wishes him good night at the usual spot they always part, at the road leading up to the Palace. 

Aziraphale stands still, watches him walk away. He calls after him.

“Crowley. Will I see you next Saturday?”

He stops but doesn’t turn around, just looks back over his shoulder. 

“Next week might not be good, angel,” he says softly. “Maybe the week after the next. All right?”

“All right,” Aziraphale repeats, heart falling.

_TBC..._


	4. Summer 2 - Summer Solstice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is nothing but drama and porn.

He’s an idiot. A bloody, stupid, fucking idiot. He looks in the mirror and tells himself this. Saying it aloud helps a little. He starts pacing, hands winding into his hair, grabbing and pulling, hoping the momentary pain will distract him. It doesn’t; it just reminds him how Aziraphale held his head when he kissed him, fingers gentle but steady.

He has fucked everything up.

He takes his glasses off, throwing them on the table and strides back to the mirror, leaning in close. Yellow eyes with their slit pupils stare back at him unblinkingly. Snake eyes. The remains of an experiment gone pear shaped. 

The Archmages liked to forbid a wide range of spells, but Transformational Magic, as Crowley learned, was restricted for a reason. He eventually managed to turn back from the large serpent he magicked himself into, but his eyes never changed back fully. A curse, a mark. People thought him a demon for them, but that wasn’t the worst part of it. Any member of the Order would recognise them for what they were. _Aziraphale,_ if he ever saw his eyes, would know him to be a renegade. With the practiced ease he cast his magic, he couldn’t be fooled in such a matter. He would be expected to report him, to bind him and present him to the Tower or to kill him. Flexible as he proved himself to be with all smaller regulations, how much would he bend the rules for Crowley’s sake?

He rubs the bridge of his nose and puts his glasses back on. He knew he was on thin ice, making friends with a mage. But you can’t snog someone and keep your shades on, not for long. He had something precious, Aziraphale’s friendship. Only if he kept his longing under control. But he didn’t, and for one slip he lost what he had. It would be too dangerous to see the mage ever again.

It’s been two weeks since that fateful night. It feels longer. Tonight, it’s Summer Solstice and the city, as usual, is bursting with excitement for the festivals. Probably even more so than usual; gossip about a war approaching is spreading fast. Eden hasn’t fought in a war for generations. People are afraid and want to forget, even if just for the night, the frightening prospects the future can bring.

Crowley hears about this possible war, about who is launching it, and thinks it might be best if he left the capital, maybe even the kingdom. He could leave under the cover of the night. Nobody would notice it for days, or longer. Nobody would miss him. It’s the safest, sanest thing to do.

He stays. He wants to be near Aziraphale. He wants to spend the festival with him, but that’s not possible. He said he will magic lights upon the sky tonight. _Fireworks cost a lot,_ he joked, _and I’m less likely to set anything on fire. Not impossible, mind you, it happened before. But less likely._

He goes out, pushes his way through the crowd. The marketplace is packed full, there’s music and dancing, food and drinks. He watches a small touring theatre company putting on a show. It must be about something funny, as people around him laugh, but not a single word registers in his mind.

At midnight the bells toll. Everyone looks up at the sky expectantly. The old Mage of the Court didn’t launch any lights for decades. 

Aziraphale’s magic is beautiful, of course it is. Hidden amongst the faceless crowd, with everyone looking heavenwards, Crowley takes off his glasses to see it in its full glory.

There are colours first, blooming across the dark night sky, forming stars, flowers, flowing water and flying birds, sparkling, blinking down on everyone merrily. The shapes merge into two human figures, shifting, unsure silhouettes. The sea of people falls quiet as gentle music chimes up from everywhere. The two figures made of light dance to it, fast at first, then slowing, until they come together in an embrace. Lights and colours settle around them. Like this, one of them appears to have a hair made of stardust. The other has a bright red halo.

The lights disappear from the sky and people cheer and clap happily. Crowley wipes his cheeks and puts his glasses back on quickly. He’s not crying, he tells himself. He’s just not used to staring at bright things without the protective layer of his shades.

He staggers to the edge of the square and sits on the entrance stairs of a house. People around him argue about the show, some saying they prefer the noise and gunpowder smell of a proper firework, the dynamic flashing and dying of sparks. Others counter that the magic show was much more elaborate, sophisticated. They agree that it was something else.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, unmoving, but suddenly something in him shifts. He stands up abruptly, dislocating the drunken man who apparently started to snooze on the stairs next to him without him even noticing. He needs to find Aziraphale. The thought is clear and urgent, and he doesn’t question it. He edges around the square and turns the corner of a street. His long legs eat up the distance quickly as he hurries through the middle circle. 

He finds Aziraphale at the outskirts of the middle circle, surrounded by Hastur and his gang, under the flickering light of the streetlamps. He’s wearing garments he must have put on for the party in the Palace; all velvet and silk and lacy frills. He looks out of place, like an angel who accidentally descended to Hell, clean and radiant even when surrounded by grime. He looks beautiful in a rather ridiculous way. Crowley has no idea how he pulls that off. 

Hastur and Lingur, and two other men he doesn’t recognise are crowding him to the wall. Rage boils in the pit of Crowley’s stomach. How dare they even think about laying a hand on his angel?

“Hastur, you filthy bastard,” he growls. “What do you think you are doing?”

Aziraphale’s eyes shot to him and his whole face lights up with a beaming smile. Crowley’s heart skips a couple of beats at that, breath catching in his throat. He casts a long look at him, taking him in from head to toe, before turning coyly away. 

“Crowley. Good gracious,” he mutters.

It’s obvious that Hastur and Lingur don’t appreciate being ignored by their victim, but they also don’t seem to know what to do with the situation, so they round on Crowley.

“Here you are again,” Hastur sneers, “Knight in shining armour coming to save the princess, aren’t you?” The others titter and laugh. “Wanna save the fancy little poofter, eh? He has money, I give you that. What does he pay for your _services?_ ” Crowley’s eyes narrow angrily behind his glasses, but he makes sure to flash a mean, predatory smile.

“I don’t think he needs saving,” he sneers, “I just hate to see dirty buggers like you nearby. Honestly, you and your lot are a disgrace.” Hastur opens his mouth, but he doesn’t let him speak. “You know what I’m capable of, Hastur,” he doesn’t, not really. He’s certainly not one of his clients, privy to his secret. But he knows Crowley’s reputation, of being dangerous, of knowing just the people you don’t want to mess with. Crowley was careful to cultivate it over the years, even if there’s not one single story that’s not over exaggerated. “Mess with him, and you are messing with me. You don’t want to do that, do you?”

He sees Lingur taking a step back. Hastur sees it too, his eyes flicker uncertainly to his partners in crime. Crowley smirks and steps closer, right into his smelly face.

“Crowley, you fucker… don’t think I’m afraid of you.”

“You aren’t? Then you are even stupider than I thought.”

“I’m outta here,” one of the thugs crowding Aziraphale murmurs to the other. They turn tail and run. Crowley’s grin hitches up another notch. He turns to Lingur.

“Why are _you_ still here?”

“I...Hastur, let’s go.”

“What? We are not running away from…” but Lingur is already doing so. Cursing, Hastur follows him.

“Thank you - again,” Aziraphale smiles at him, small and tight, but it still lets a bunch of butterflies loose in Crowley’s stomach. 

“Shut up,” he grumbles. “What are you doing here at such a time, dressed like _that?”_

“Hmm? Oh, it’s the Summer Festival, isn’t it? I have _standards,_ for such occasions.”

“Obviously,” Crowley murmurs and capitulates from the battle he’s fighting with a smile. They stare at each other, both suddenly grinning like loons for no reason at all. Aziraphale looks rather fetching, in a too-posh and too-frilly kind of way. But then, Crowley would find him fetching in rags too.

“My dear,” Aziraphale is the first to look away, twiddling nervously with the laces of his sleeves, “I was looking for you when I ran into these unpleasant gentlemen. I missed you. It’s been a while.”

“It was two weeks, angel.”

“A while,” he repeats, firmly. “Listen, Crowley, can we…”

“I need to tell you something,” he blurts out, butterflies in his stomach replaced by heavy lead of dread. “I need to show you something, before we… Before. I need to.”

“Alright,” the mage agrees carefully. “Where do you…”

“Come up to my place, will you? We’re not far away.”

They walk in silence, Aziraphale darting him questioning glances now and then. It’s the worst decision he has ever made, Crowley is sure of it. He also knows he must go through it; he will lose Aziraphale, but at least he will be honest with him. That’s the least he deserves.

Once inside, Crowley lights all his petroleum lamps one by one. They stand in their dim, glittering light facing each other awkwardly.

“It would be better if it was brighter,” his hands are shaking. He curls them into fists to hide it. “So, you could see better what I’m about to show you.”

“Let there be light then,” Aziraphale snaps his fingers and warm light fills the room. “But my dear boy, you don’t have to tell or show me anything you are uncomfortable with.”

“No, angel, I have to do this. You have to know.”

He reaches up with his unsteady fingers and plucks his glasses off. He keeps his eyes shut just for a few more moments, delaying the inevitable, before blinking them open, looking at Aziraphale without the dark tint for the first time. He drinks the sight of him in, knowing it very well may be the last time as well.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale steps in close. He raises a hand, runs his fingers around Crowley’s snake eyes, caressing his brow, his temple. 

“I'm sorry.”

“You are a mage, too.”

“I am.”

“But not from the Order.”

“No, I’m… I used to be. But I was… cast out. I’m a renegade.”

Aziraphale steps back. Crowley thinks about falling to his knees, begging for forgiveness, begging him to touch him one last time. He stays upright, watches Aziraphale starting to pace in agitation, hands twisting into each other, darting him glances every second minute. Suddenly the light is too much, so Crowley snaps his own fingers, blinking it out. They stay with the flickering light of the lamps.

“Listen, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs, and suddenly he sounds business-like. “I’m sorry, but I need to think about this. I’ll… I’ll be back, all right? But I need some time.”

“Yeah,” he hears himself replying. “Yeah, sure angel. Whatever.”

***

He stays the next day and night in bed, only getting up to take a piss or drink some water. He should flee, he knows. That nobody came to arrest him yet means Aziraphale is giving him some time. He should use it. 

There will be soldiers, he thinks. The guards of the palace, maybe. He could fight them, but he won’t. He’ll go with them, will listen to and accept his sentence, because there wasn’t much of a point in anything, anymore. Not without Aziraphale. 

The next morning there’s a knock on his door. He doesn’t move from under his blanket, thinking they will let themselves in anyway, but they just knock again. He throws the covers off in frustration, striding to the door, wearing nothing but a pair of thin pants, but not bothering with dressing up, not even bothering with his glasses. He yanks the door open, snarling.

“By the holy arse of the Great God, do I have to do your…” it’s Aziraphale, on his own. He trails off. It’s not supposed to be Aziraphale. 

“I’m sorry if I woke you, Crowley,” he sounds uncertain. “Do you mind if I come in?”

Given the circumstances he rather minds, but he steps aside nevertheless, letting Aziraphale in and shutting the door behind him. He picks up yesterday’s - or rather the day before yesterday’s shirt from the floor and puts it on quickly. He has pieces of clothing scattered all about in his usually immaculate flat. He hasn’t seen the point of putting them away anymore. He looks around for his glasses. They lay shattered on the floor, broken as he threw them against the wall in a fit of range. 

“It’s not supposed to be you,” he snaps. “Why haven’t you sent the guards?”

“The guards?”  
  


“The royal soldiers, or whoever. I wouldn’t have hurt them. I would go with them quietly.”

“I… I’m not sure I follow, my dear. Go _where?”_

“You don’t need to be cruel about this,” he supposes he has no right to be hurt, yet he is. “Do you want to kill me yourself, right here, in my home?”

“ _Kill you?!”_ Aziraphale's voice rises in alarm. “Crowley, why on earth would I… oh my. Oh my dear boy. I’d never…” he raises his arm, running fingers through unruly, pale curls in agitation. “I’d _never_ hurt you.”

“No?” he asks, truly confused. He has been waiting for his death sentence for over a day.

“No! If course not! My dear, I ran away in such a silly fashion last time, leaving you with this horrid notion. Do you mind if I… can I…?” Crowley makes a vague, agreeable noise in the back of his throat, too stunned to try to figure out what Aziraphale is asking permission for. He might have been a tad over dramatic in reflection, and he finds it difficult to catch up with Aziraphale now. He lets the mage take his hand and hold it between the two of his palms. He looks at him with an embarrassingly earnest expression.

“Your eyes are beautiful,” Crowley’s mouth says without his permission. Aziraphale blinks in surprise but doesn’t look away.

“So are yours, my darling. I’ve never seen anything like them.”

“It’s ‘cause of magic has gone wrong,” he mutters, feeling Aziraphale is missing the point here. Or maybe he is. He feels dizzy. He hasn’t eaten in a while. He hasn’t left the bed for over a day. 

“I gathered that much. Did you try to transform?”

“I _did_ transform. ‘T’was harder than I thought to change back.”

“How old were you?”

“Sixteen, almost.”

“That’s exceptional,” Aziraphale breathes, sounding truly impressed. “What did you turn into? A cat?”

“A serpent. These are snake eyes.”

They stand there in silence. Aziraphale is still holding his hand, smiling up at him. Hope blooms in Crowley’s chest.

“Angel? What are we doing here?”

“I… well. I came to apologize for last time, for leaving like that. And wanted to ask if we are still friends. And. Hmm. You know, if you are not averse to… more.”

“More?” 

“Hmm-hmm. More. Just maybe in a room, not on the street kind of more.”

“I thought…” his heart is ready to burst out of his chest. “The Members of the Alabaster Order can’t take…” he fishes around for a word. Lovers? “...people who are _more.”_

“The Tower is rather far away from here, don’t you agree?”

“I need to sit down,” he states and does. The chair or the bed are nowhere nearby, so he slumps down on the floor. Still holding his hand, Aziraphale follows him, sitting down next to him. Crowley decides he will worry about dignity later. He crawls over and drapes him across the other man’s lap. Aziraphale shifts, embracing him close. 

“I’m sorry for upsetting you so.”

“No, no. I’m sorry for not telling you sooner.”

“You didn’t know that you could.” His fingers run through his hair, caressing him gently. Crowley melts against him. “Is this all right? We have to be careful, not to be seen, but… would you want this? With me? I know it’s not much, that I’m not much, but maybe…”

“Aziraphale,” he raises his head. “What are you even talking about? I have wanted you since the day you arrived, wandering about like you had no bigger care in the world but to do grocery shopping for pregnant beggars.”

“Oh,” he kisses the top of his head, his temples, and when Crowley closes his eyes, his eyelids. “Well, I’ll let you know I found you quite dashing as well. Coming to my rescue, dressed in all that black, like a dark hero.”

“Did you, now?”

“Hmm, yes, definitely. Those pants, those boots, that sash… Those pants. I guess I already said that.”

“You don’t like my clothing?” he will burn them all. “What’s wrong with the pants?”

“Nothing’s wrong with them. They are quite indecent, but I _definitely_ like them. They make it hard to focus on anything but you, though.” In that case, he won’t burn them, after all. He raises his face, until his lips find Aziraphale’s. They kiss, tender and sweet. Crowley is falling falling falling, and he will be properly frightened about it once his mind starts working again. For now, he can’t be bothered. He shifts up on his knees, positioning himself over Aziraphale’s lap and kisses him more deeply. The mage moans into his mouth, hands sliding down his back to grab his arse, pulling him closer. 

“Do you think it’d be a horrible idea, moving to the bed?” Aziraphale asks when they have to break for air. It’s a downright brilliant idea, so Crowley clambers off from him, offering a hand to help him up. The light pants he’s wearing do nothing to hide how excited he’s becoming already. Aziraphale looks him over with obvious hunger. Crowley smirks. This is more familiar ground.

“Sit down,” he pushes Aziraphale gently down on the bed. Getting undressed is fast, he hardly has any clothing on. He stands naked in front of Aziraphale, who’s still fully clothed in all layers he’s always wearing, even though the days have started to become quite warm. It makes him feel vulnerable, it makes him feel powerful, and he shivers with the delightful contradiction of it. He pushes Aziraphale’s thighs apart gently, so he can slide to his knees in between them. 

“My darling,” the mage cups his face, and Crowley places a kiss to the middle of his palm, before starting on unlacing his breeches. Aziraphale shrugs his coat off and works the buttons of his shirt open. Toes off his fancy boots and lifts his hips, so Crowley can pull his pants down. He’s hard and waiting for him. He has pale, curly hair around his cock, just a shade darker than the one on top of his head. 

He caresses Crowley’s face again, and he looks up, keeping eye contact. Aziraphale’s fingers outline his lips, a suggestion. He smirks, taking two of them into his mouth, and grabs his cock, starting to stroke it gently. Aziraphale looks at him mesmerized. He’s gorgeous like this, wearing nothing but a half-buttoned shirt, pale skin flushed with arousal and Crowley desperately wishes for many, many days and nights where he will see him like this. 

He works him faster now, his other hand caressing the soft skin of his thighs. Crowley has woven elaborate fantasies of himself between these legs. He feels dizzy now, that he can fulfil one of them. 

Aziraphale pushes his fingers deeper in his mouth, against his tonge, before pulling them out, spreading saliva on Crowley’s lips. Crowley slows down then stops stroking him, kissing his inner thigh apologetically when he whimpers in protest.

“I really want to suck your cock,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “But I’d also love if you fucked me,” Aziraphale blinks down at him as if waking from a dream. “Which one do you want? Hmm? Angel?”

“Is that ok? If I fuck you, dearest. I really have thought quite a lot about it.”

“Have you now?” He stands, and Aziraphale scoots back on the bed, making room for him. He crawls after him on hands and knees, hoping he appears seductive, suspecting he looks desperate. He climbs on top of him, undoing the remaining buttons of his shirt, kissing his way up as he goes, pressing his lips down on the base of his erection, on the curly trail of hair running up to his navel, on his plush belly, up his sternum, into the juncture of his neck. His skin in unblemished, soft. Aziraphale is mapping his body too, soft, uncalloused palms running up his spine, over his shoulders and into his hair. 

His other hand is firm on his buttocks. Hazily Crowley notes he seems to rather like them. If he does, no complaints from him. His fingers slip into the crack between them, touching just briefly against his opening. He gasps, lifting his head. 

“I have some oil around here somewhere…”

“No need, I can…” Aziraphale snaps his fingers and when he returns them to Crowley’s hole, they are slick with some substance. 

“They didn’t teach you in the Tower, did they,” he is honestly impressed. 

“It might be my own invention,” Aziraphale admits with a flush. He doesn’t stop circling the puckered ring of muscle, and Crowley pushes back impatiently. 

The first finger slides into him quite easily; Aziraphale’s lubricant _is_ magical. There’s a bit of a burn at the second, but Crowley bits back his hiss. He wants it rough, wants it to hurt a bit, to feel Aziraphale even days later.

He rises up on his knees, grabbing the headboard for support, allowing Aziraphale to have better access to his arse. He begs for a third finger and pushes back against them urgently. The mage tries to shush him, hold him by one hip as he stretches and scissors his fingers at his own pace.

“Please, please angel,” he whines. “I’m ready, I want you.”

“Slowly, slowly my dear, there’s no rush,” Aziraphale whispers, but he does remove his fingers, guiding him down with a gentle push on the hip. His cock pushes against Crowley’s buttocks, sliding up between the crease of the cheeks. He reaches back to hold it steady and sinks down on it. He’s too impatient, he goes too fast - it’s been awhile and Aziraphale’s prick is thick and hard.

The pain blinds him for a moment, a sharp ache he has to breathe through. Aziraphale is sitting up, cradling him close, hand soothing on his lower back, hot breath whispering in his ear.

“Easy, easy now, I’ve got you.”

Crowley gasps, the knife edge of pain subsiding to a dull ache. He rotates his hips experimentally, making Aziraphale growl low and surprisingly feral in the back of his throat. He holds still underneath him, waiting for the taller man to get accustomed to his grit.

Crowley raises himself a bit and pushes back down. The ache is there, but the rush of arousal is back too. His cock stiffens to its full hardness again. He leans back, supporting his weight on his hands, allowing Aziraphale to watch him as he rides him.

Watch, he does, with such a hungry expression Crowley thought he reserved for the crepes they make in that fancy little restaurant they sometimes go to. That look makes him just as lightheaded as the steady pressure in his arse. Aziraphale is back, he thinks. Somehow, this morning went from him expecting his execution to bouncing on the cock of the man he so pitifully fell for. His mind has better things to do than figure out how on earth did that happen, like being fucked out, so Crowley abandons thoughts, doubts and questions and pushes down harder.

Aziraphale shifts, sitting up halfway, with his back against the pillow and headboard. He takes hold of Crowley’s thighs, caresses the soft inner skin, thumbs pushing against the base of his cock. Crowley groans, head falling back. He pulls at his own hair in an attempt to get some of his bearing back, but it doesn’t work, not with the way Aziraphale is thrusting hard and deep up to him. He wants to ask, to beg him to push him onto his back and fuck him even rougher, but that would require articulated speech and coordinated movement, and he doesn’t possess any of those at the moment.

Aziraphale’s fingers close around his cock, and he shouts out, tethering dangerously on the edge of orgasm. 

“Crowley, Crowley,” Aziraphale gasps out, “I’m so close. Can you come for me, by beauty, my darling?”

His eyes snap open, he looks back at the mage and does just that, shooting his release over his fingers, over his soft stomach and broad chest in thick sprouts. He slumps forward, boneless, and Aziraphale catches him, embraces him close. He’s still thrusting up into him, erratic and desperate, and Crowley does his best to clench around him. It’s painful again, with his own arousal sated, but he silently cherishes that. He will definitely feel this later, will have to hold back a hiss when he sits down, and that will make him think of how Aziraphale filled him so completely, so perfectly. He hides his face against the mage’s shoulder and smiles. 

With a final, powerful thrust, Aziraphale comes. He’s gasping out little senseless words of _dears_ and _so goods._ Crowley moves against him gently, clenching around his softening length, helping him give all he has.

He has to move at last, climbing off Aziraphale, allowing his cock to slip free. He slumps down on the bed, and Aziraphale follows, embracing him close.

If he changed his mind, and executed Crowley after all, he wouldn’t care. He’d die a happy man.

_TBC…_


	5. Summer 3 - Fragile Peace

He dozes, sated and happy. The noises from outside are getting louder as the morning progresses, the daily life of the city going on as normal, regardless of what Aziraphale is up to with an outcast mage. He would need to be in the Palace, but it’s unlikely anyone will miss him. For once he’s grateful for it.

Crowley slithers out from his arms and the bed after a while to go to the basin in the corner. Aziraphale watches him, only half-awake, basking in the luxury of staying with his lover after sex, in the simple pleasure of being allowed to watch the man he became so fond of in these last months.

Crowley pours some water and dabbles a towel in the basin. It’s unexpectedly erotic to watch him wash himself, wiping off semen from his stomach. When he reaches between his legs, Aziraphale is out of the bed before he can think about it.

“Here, let me help with that,” he offers. “It’s my doing, after all” he adds, when Crowley just narrows his snake eyes at him. “I can just make it disappear, if you want me to.” Crowley could very well do it himself, of course. It will take some getting used to the idea. 

“No, I prefer this way. Just…” he doesn’t resist when Aziraphale plucks the towel from his fingers. His breath hitches when Aziraphale sinks to his knees in front of him.

“Turn around dearest, would you?”

He does, bending in half to balance himself on the low table the basin is standing on, pushing his backside towards the mage. Aziraphale cock gives an interested twitch, though he feels way too sated still to stiffen again. 

“You realize this is a rather embarra...ahh,” The rest of the sentence never comes as Aziraphale runs the damp cloth down the crack of his thin, lovely arse. Crowley’s thigh has a trail of Aziraphale’s semen dried on it, and he takes his time getting all the sticky patches off before turning his attention to Crowley’s buttocks. He pulls the cheeks apart gently with his spare hand and wipes the cloths over the back of his balls, the sensitive skin behind them, before turning his focus on his hole. 

By this, both of them are breathing fast and excited. Aziraphale has never taken care of anyone like this before, all his encounters being quick and rather impersonal. He’d always magicked all remnants of bloody fluids away, or taken a solitary bath, trusting his partner would take care of himself on his own as well. But with Crowley, it’s different. He enjoys seeing the evidence of what they’d done, and the finds tender joy in cleaning the other man. It must be the most intimate act he’s ever done with anyone.

He pushes the towel against Crowley’s opening, feeling it giving way the tiniest bit. Crowley hitches a sharp breath in, pushing back against it.

He takes his time, even if his knees scream at him for kneeling like that on the hard floor. He clambers to his feet at last, less than gracefully, but luckily, he’s behind Crowley’s back so it remains unseen. He pulls the other man against his chest, embracing him tight, placing a light kiss on his long neck, feeling all warm and fluttery inside, in a way that’s a lot more than only physical attraction. He prefers not to put a name on it for the time being, fears that would be too much.

He runs his hands down on Crowley’s chest, enjoying the feel of lithe muscle, smooth skin and coarse hairs under his palm. He maps the sharp hip bones, dips his fingers lower, to find Crowley’s prick hard, curving up against his concave belly. 

“Angel,” Crowley breaths, when he starts to stoke him. “You will be the death of me.”

“I thought we established I won’t be that,” he chuckles. “You keep calling me that. Angel. I don’t think they use that in a nice way for the members of the Order.”

“Well, fuck the Order,” Crowley growls, “ _You_ are an angel.”

He spills on Aziraphale’s fingers soon and the mage wipes off the semen quickly this time, before it can dry.

“No, don’t,” he says when Crowley turns to take his half-hard prick in his hand. The taller man looks hurt, so he tries to explain how he wouldn’t mind getting a bit pent-up, waiting for them to repeat this morning. “I thought it would be nice to… you know. For next time. To keep me a bit on the edge until we do this again?... if you want to do this again?”

“Of course, I want to…”

“Good, then… next time?”

“Do you mean Saturday?” Saturday is ages away. 

“How about tomorrow evening? If you don’t have anything else to do, of course,” he hastens to add, suddenly unsure. Is he too greedy? He can’t expect Crowley to be available whenever he pleases.

“I’m sure I will manage to rearrange my busy schedule,” Crowley smirks in a way that’s almost a smile and has a weakening effect on Aziraphale’s knees. He doesn’t think it’s an actual spell, though. “Do you want to come over when you get away from the Palace?”

“Maybe we can have dinner first?” he asks hopefully. Going out with Crowley after all this would be different. Like a date, like something people, who are not present or former members of the Order, can afford to do all the time. Sharing food and drink with the person you really, really like. “If you want to? Crepes, maybe?”

“Crepes sound brilliant, angel,” Crowley smiles again and kisses him.

***

Aziraphale spends the week high on happy clouds, free of the doubts and concerns that usually nag him. It’s impossible not to be overjoyed when suddenly he has everything he wished for. They go out every night with Crowley, to have dinner, drink wine and chat. Like before, and still, not quite like before. Crowley will run his feet up on Aziraphale’s leg under the table, or the mage might reach out and take the other man’s hand when they walk the streets at night. He no longer tries to disguise the smouldering desire he feels, and Crowley will sometimes lower his glasses, staring above them at Aziraphale, his magical eyes playful, hungry or tender. After their date, they go back to Crowley’s place. While he always rather liked sex, Aziraphale had never found it this amazing before. With every occasion they learn more about each other. He discovers how Crowley just likes it a bit rough, a bit fast. He finds that he actually doesn’t mind that either. He loves the effect he has on Crowley, a secret thrill that he can make such an attractive man come apart under his touch. Nobody has looked at him like this before, gasped his name _like that,_ called him angel in the throes of passion.

He sneaks back to the Palace at ungodly hours, deep at night or at the crack of dawn, to change clothes. When there’s nothing for him to do during the day, which is the majority of the time, he hides in the library and dozes in the armchair.

It’s the happiest week of his life. Guilt tries to creep in; he’s doing something forbidden with someone forbidden. He tries to feel bad about it, but he ends up thinking of Crowley’s wicked, clever, wonderful mouth, drinking wine, smirking, telling him funny, sarcastic stories, kissing him, wrapping around his cock, and he forgets all reasons why he’s not supposed to enjoy any of that.

Reality returns with the pigeon carrying Archmage Gabriel’s letter. The response is confusing; he goes on at length about Lucifer’s shortcomings, how he failed, how he fell from the grace of the Order, how he was weak and pathetic to ignore all rules, to dibble into dark magic.

Almost as an afterthought, he added a paragraph, saying he’s also very powerful and dangerous, and if he’s threatening Eden, the best would be for the Empress to call in the help of the Archmages.

Aziraphale has suggested that already on the Advisory meetings and to the Metatron, but he saw no official delegation leaving to the Ivory Tower yet. He sighs, thinking maybe he should give another attempt at getting a personal hearing with the Empress, despite all the times he bounced back from the Metatron so far. There’s a pack between Eden and the Order, and it is due time it’s called upon. Considering the increasingly alarming news of an army approaching, maybe even past time. He writes back to his old master, asking for the help himself, though he suspects that won’t be enough. 

There is a third page of the letter, where Gabriel details all the fallen mages associated with Lucifer. He traces Crowley’s name with regret. 

He burns that page. He has the creeping suspicion he won’t be able to ignore reality for much longer but keeping incriminating evidence against Crowley won’t do.

He’s desperate that night, chasing the careless joy that’s slipping away from him. He’s holding onto Crowley with greedy, rough hands, thrusting into his body sharply, too fast, too hard, stealing kisses from his gasping lips. Crowley doesn’t seem to mind. He never does. His long legs are around Aziraphale’s waist, neck arching back in a beautiful bow, coming as soon as the mage forces a hand in between their bodies to wrap it around his cock. 

He’s gorgeous when he gives over to the abandonment of pleasure, he’s so precious. Aziraphale doesn’t want to lose him. 

Crowley wraps his long arms around him once they are both spent. He doesn’t say anything, maybe sensing Aziraphale’s disquiet.

“Have you tried transforming ever after?” he asks into the comfortable silence, cursing himself at how Crowley tenses at that.

“Yeah… it went better, after the first time.”

“Will you show me? How you look like as a serpent?” Crowley peers at him, trying to determine his intention, probably.

“Maybe, yeah. One day.”

“One day,” he repeats, thinking it could be a promise.

“Do you want to learn it?”

“Transformational magic? Good gods, I don’t think I could. What would I even turn to?”

“A… dove?” they both snort with laughter.

“Don’t snakes eat doves?” 

Crowley pushes himself up on his elbow and flashes a very wicked smile. 

“They _swallow them whole,”_ now, that’s definitely a promise. Aziraphale smiles, caressing his face. He wishes they could stay in this moment forever.

“Right,” Crowley grumbles. “What’s wrong now?”

“There’s a war coming,” Aziraphale sighs, sitting up. “Seems pretty unavoidable.”

“So I heard,” Crowley sits up as well. A guarded look comes over him. “The whole city is talking about it.”

“Did you also hear who the enemy forces are? Who leads the troops? It’s a renegade mage of the order. Lucifer.” His fingers lace and unlace and he wishes he put on some clothes for this conversation. Crowley narrows his eyes at him.

“What are you fishing for here, Aziraphale?”

“Did you know him?”

“Yes,” he growls. “I did. But I assume you already knew that,” he starts off in a low tone, but his voice rises as he gets more agitated. “Are you asking if I still know him _now?_ If I have anything to do with his campaign?” He gets out of bed, dragging on his discarded pants quickly, snapping his fingers to clean himself from Aziraphale’s semen. It’s so silly under the circumstances, but the mage wishes he had the chance to clean him off with a towel like he has done so on all previous occasions.

“Crowley, I… it’s not that I _assume_ anything, I just need to know if…”

“If I’m the traitorous, dangerous bastard you were always told regenerate mages are? Someone you shouldn’t trust?”

Basically yes, but it sounds horrible, said out loudly like that.

“I just need a bit more information, Crowley. I need to prepare for this war, and I need all that I can use…”

“I was fifteen, when I met him, _fifteen!_ He was the first person who didn’t shun me for asking questions, Aziraphale. I followed him around, he taught me, encouraged me to be bolder with my magic _._ Then I ended up as a snake for weeks, and by the time I was human again, he was long gone. You probably know more about what he did in the last twenty something years, than I do!”

“My dear, I…”

“Well sorry, if there’s no grand scheming and demonic spells I can take the credit for as you so obviously hoped. Not that you can _trust_ that what I’m telling is the truth, right?”

“That’s not…”

“I think you better go now,” Crowley reaches for his glasses and puts them on with shaking fingers. He watches Aziraphale getting dressed with his arms folded before his naked chest. Despite his dark shades, the mage can feel those serpent eyes boring into him. He wishes he never brought the whole thing up, or rather, if he managed to phase it in a way that didn’t upset the other man so. He didn’t get much information from Crowley, but he finds he believes him when he’s saying that’s because he doesn’t know more. He clings to that little piece of warmth. He needs it; although he’s now fully dressed, the room feels very chilly.

He stops when he’s at the door, running his fingers over the handle, not wanting to turn it at all.

“I believe you,” he says without turning around. “But I had to ask. Please… be careful, my dear. The Archmages might ride into town shortly. If they catch you, they’ll… they won’t just punish you. They’ll destroy you. But Crowley, _I_ know you are a good person.”

He takes a deep breath, and opens the door, but Crowley strides up behind him and slams it closed. He turns and the taller man takes hold of the lapel of his coat, pushing him forcefully against the door. He looks feral, dressed in nothing but his shades and pants, his hair a wild, red halo around him. His body is hot and hard against his.

“You can’t say stuff like that, angel,” his voice is shaky, torn by emotions the mage is not sure he can decipher. “Can’t say that stuff and just _leave.”_

“Which part?” Aziraphale asks, and he can’t help a small smile. He doesn’t point out that minutes ago Crowley _told him_ to leave. 

“Any of them!” he kisses Aziraphale, heated, more teeth than tongue, though it mellows into a deep, intimate battle of tongues. 

“No promises,” he responds once they part and he gets some air. “Not about the saying stuff part at least.” He has no intention leaving him, but he leaves that unsaid, hoping the other will understand.

Crowley jerks his head up in surprise. Gently, Aziraphale takes the glasses off, and kisses the tip of his nose.

“All right, angel. All right,” he whispers, pulling him close. 

***

The news arriving from the border are getting increasingly alarming. It’s not the size of the opposing army that makes the Advisors argue in panic. Eden is larger and far more rich than the Fourth Kingdom, with well-fed and armed soldiers, even if they have never fought in a war. There was no war in Eden for generations.

No, it’s Lucifer's powers that are alarming, and the way nobody can tell the truth apart from myths. He’s gathered other renegade mages around him, a pack of followers calling themselves The Fallen. They also say his son, barely older than a child, is fighting alongside him, with powers that overshadow even his father’s. 

A delegation leaves to the Ivory Tower, asking for the help of the Archmages. About bloody time, Aziraphale thinks. 

The citizens are not in any better shape than the Advisors. Some argue that Eden hasn’t lost a war for centuries, that nobody even dared to attack them for over a hundred years, and with good reason. Others point out that their soldiers have no practical experience at all. That Lucifer won’t come in waving swords, he will burn the fields and tear down walls with his magic. People from the countryside pack all their belongings and travel up to the capital to find shelter within its walls. The poor folk living just outside the city have already moved in, crowding the outer circle. Crime rates reach an all-time high, robbery, rape, murder becoming an everyday occurrence, not just in Hell, but in the middle circle too. The guards patrol the city, and people sometimes cheer them, sometimes throw rotten vegetables and worse at them. Wealthy citizens move out on their ornamented carriages, hoping neighbouring countries will welcome them. 

Aziraphale visits Eve. He lurks around the corner until he sees Adam leave, before knocking on the door. He handles over his usual basket of food and casts a guardian spell on the door. It won’t stop an army, but it will protect the house from burglars and rapists at least. Baby Cain gurgles happily when he sees him, not a care in the world. 

Aziraphale starts to wear a hood and cape when he leaves the Palace, hoping they will help disguising him somewhat. People who never paid him any attention now grab him, ask him for advice, ask him about Lucifer, about what Aziraphale is capable of, if he’s one of the Archmages. As he’s not, does he know when they are arriving? If they won’t come, can Aziraphale stand against the opposing army on his own? Can he magic everyone out from the city if needed? It’s very taxing to be the only mage in the capital at a time like this. The only known mage, at any rate. 

They are more careful now, with Crowley. They meet in the city park, in small restaurants out of sight. Crowley always walks home alone, with Aziraphale following him in a quarter of an hour or so. People might be watching, and they can’t afford a report going back to Gabriel, telling him about a strange man Aziraphale is seeing.

“We should leave,” Crowley tells him one afternoon. They shared the news they heard, Aziraphale from the Palace, Crowley from the streets and his _connections,_ as he calls the shady people he performs his unauthorized magic for. None of them are very encouraging. “Why fight in this war?”

“Leave, Crowley?” Aziraphale snaps. They both lose their patience a lot more easily nowadays. “There isn’t _anywhere to go.”_

“It’s a big world, angel. They say the Kingdom of Toliman is something you must see before you die. Considering the chances for us dying is quite high if we stay…”

“Well, you can go, obviously,” he pulls on the sleeves of his shirt, smoothing out non-existent wrinkles, a nervous gesture. “ _I_ have an obligation here. A duty to fulfil.”

“What duty?” Crowley snorts. “Are you going to stand in front of the whole army alone, holding them back single handed until Archmage Fucking Gabriel decides to show his bloody face? Are you going to challenge _Lucifer_ on a magic duel? What will you do when he summons demons and raises the dead to fight for him? _Conjure a bucket of lubricant_ and hope they slip?”

“That’s… uncalled for,” Aziraphale says, hurt. “I might not be the greatest mage ever born, but I can do more than conjure lubricant. If your opinion is so low…”

“Shit, I…” he looks away, clearly uncomfortable. “I didn’t mean it like that angel, I’m sorry,” Crowley takes his nervously fluttering hands. “I know you can do more than that, right? But Lucifer is nasty and wily, while you do beautiful things, like those lights at Summer Solstice?”

“And lubricant,” Aziraphale mutters, but he can’t stay angry and hurt, not when Crowley is so close, rubbing his thumb over the back of Aziraphale’s hand and looking at him apologetically with those huge, beautiful eyes. 

“It’s a first-class lubricant.”

“Thank you,” he’s now struggling to keep a straight face. “I take pride in that,” he casts a glance at Crowley from under his lashes, enjoying, as always, how that makes the taller man so obviously flushed. “You liked my summer lights?”

  
“They were exquisite, angel,” he’s looking down at their joined hands now, so Aziraphale raises them, kissing his knuckles. 

“I’m no fool, Crowley,” he tries to assure him. “I’ve no intention to face Lucifer myself. But I have to do what I can do, you understand that, right? That’s my duty.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Crowley mutters, not sounding convinced. “I get that, angel.”

_TBC..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In another universe, Toliman is the name of α Centauri B, one of the triple stars of the Alpha Centauri star system.


	6. Autnum 1 - End Days

“I have a plan,” Aziraphale tells him. Crowley immediately has an ominous feeling about it. 

Between the two of them, they discussed, argued about and discarded many plans over the last long weeks. None of them were very smart, all of them were born out of desperation. Lucifer and his army will arrive under the gates of the city in days. There is no news about the Archmages. They don’t need a plan; they need a miracle.

“Tell me, angel,” he sighs.

“You remember Lucifer’s son? The boy who they say is travelling with the army? They say he’s powerful, but he’s still practically a child. Fifteen, sixteen years old the most. If the two of us could infiltrate behind the enemy lines, I’m sure we could capture him and use him as a hostage against his father. What do you think?” he nudges when Crowley just stares at him, open-mouthed.

“What do I… I think you’re out of your mind, angel! There will be thousands of soldiers - they are led by a woman who calls herself War! How promising is that? Not to mention a bunch of fallen mages between him and us. How could we even find him, not to mention capture him?”

“They wouldn’t be expecting us. He can be Lucifer’s only weak point that we know of.”

“It’s too dangerous. It’s way too dangerous, angel.”

“Well. Do you have any better ideas? A _single_ , better idea?” he lifts his eyebrow challengingly, and Crowley wants to shake him, wants to hug him, wants to promise him he’ll follow him no matter what suicidal, desperate plan he makes and wants to run away, dragging Aziraphale with him.

“We are _not_ doing this. The city can either hold the assault back until the Archmages arrive, or it can capitulate. You and I, we don’t need to do any of this dangerous stuff. Have you been commanded by the Empress to try something like that? No. Have the Archmages told you to do this? No. Hence, you _don’t need to do it.”_

“Crowley…”

“ _Please_ , Aziraphale. Let’s go to Toliman, before it’s too late. We can run away together.”

“Run away together? Crowley, _please_. You know I absolutely can’t.”

“Oh no, angel, you absolutely can, you just _won’t_.” he runs his fingers through his hair, pulling on it in agitation. His instincts scream at him to flee. His mind tells him to come to his senses; why stick around a crazy mage with suicidal thoughts just because he wants to follow some bloody rules? He has known Aziraphale for half a year - why risk everything for him? His heart is heavy, as he knows he can’t leave him, no matter how sensible that would be.

They argue, and they don’t get anywhere. Crowley promises he’ll come up with a better idea, flustered, Aziraphale says he highly doubt that, but he’ll come back next evening to hear it.

Only next evening seems to bring the end of the world.

Dusk starts to settle over the city late afternoon, but the city doesn't get its night's rest. Crowley is strolling the streets, deep in thought, without any single idea of what he could counter Aziraphale’s suicidal plan with, when a star seems to fall upon the Palace. There’s a bright flash of light descending from the sky, then a loud, horrible noise. Everything around him starts to shake a moment later, the frightening aftershock of an explosion.

For a moment he stares blankly at the flames lighting up the upper circle. There’s a process of attacking and defending a city, even someone like him, not experienced in warfare knows that. The offending army gathers around the outer walls. The city pulls back to the middle circle, where the walls are easier to hold. If it comes to the worst, the population retreats to the upper circle, which can be defended until food runs out.

But why would an army that bases its destructive force on magic follow the old pattern? Why wouldn’t Lucifer, his son and his circle of fallen mages attack the heart and brain of the capital straight away, where the most important people are? Why haven't they thought of this possibility before? 

Crowley starts to run. People around are fleeing to the opposite direction, as far away from the centre of destruction as possible. He pushes everyone out of the way, blind panic gripping him. Aziraphale is there. Aziraphale was inside the Palace when the fireball hit.

He dashes up the road he watched Aziraphale walk up so many times. Fancy buildings, lush gardens are aflame all around him. Someone is screaming, there are wounded people on the streets, moaning, clutching wounds. There are dead bodies as well, heaps of flesh aflame.

The eastern wing of the palace is in ruins, but the rest, miraculously enough, holds together. Crowley heard about the ancient magic woven through its bricks - it seems to last, still.

Nobody stops him as he runs up the stairs, long legs taking two at the time, and bursts through the front entrance. He tries to tune in for Aziraphale’s magic to find him, but there’s too much interference, the strong, old magic of mages long gone, and the fresh, just as strong, destructive force sent by Lucifer.

Crowley has no idea where to look, so he stumbles towards the smell of smoke. At another time he might be amazed by the richness of the place; the intarsia of the tapestry, the paintings, the statues, armours decorating the hall. People dressed in rich clothes are scrambling out from the building, escaping in panic, while others are heading in the same direction he does, carrying buckets of water to put the fire out. 

“Angel,” he shouts, “where are you? Aziraphale!”

He pushes on, the smell of smoke making his eyes water. He stops for a moment to take his glasses off to wipe them. He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. It’s just the smoke, he tells himself. He has no reason to cry. The Palace is huge, but he will find him. He must. Aziraphale arrived so miraculously in his life, has brought him out of his solitary shell, which he wasn’t even aware of before. For the first time in his life he got a friend, a lover, someone who was precious to him. He will not lose him. Fate can’t be that cruel.

A young woman and man bump into him in one door, both carrying buckets. He recognises the woman, he saw her from far away before, on official ceremonies; Advisor of Something or Other. He grabs her arm. 

“Aziraphale. The Mage of the Court. Do you know where he is? I can’t find him.” She looks at him, expression hard as steel at first, but softening as she hears his desperation.

“I think he was in the library. Look, cross the lobby here, then up the stairs. Turn left.”

“The fire is ablaze there,” the man adds. Crowley feels his jaw set.

“That doesn’t matter,” he hurries on in the direction they gave, up to the searing inferno that is the library. The stench of burning paper, textiles and leather hits him when he reaches the top floor. 

“Angel!” he shouts again, “Where are you, you idiot?” He has to be here somewhere, even if Crowley can’t feel his magic signature that always helped him to find Aziraphale before. That’s just because of all the powerful magic running amok around them. He will _not_ give into despair. He won’t think the heat and the smoke and how all-consuming they seem. “Aziraphale!”

“Crowley?” the voice comes from the thick of the fire. Casting a quick spell on himself, he bursts through the flames.

Aziraphale is sitting on the floor, with his back against the wall, next to a pile of books and scrolls. The edge of his silhouette is flickering with his own fire resistance spell. He’s pale and he has soot smeared all over him, but he looks otherwise unharmed. Thanks to all Gods, who Crowley has never believed in before, but he’s willing to start now.

“What the hell are you doing here, in the middle of Armageddon, angel?”

“Oh, I was trying to save at least some of the books, but… I guess I inhaled too much smoke, and I started to feel a bit dizzy, so I had to sit down. What are _you_ doing here, my dear?”

“I’m here,” Crowley takes a deep breath, although there’s hardly any air to draw in around them “to save you, you moron. Now let’s get out of here.”

He reaches across Aziraphale’s chest and drags him to his feet, not an easy task, as the mage is heavier than him and physical strength is not his forte.

“Crowley, the books…”

“Fuck the books,” he mutters, but between the two of them they levitate the pile Aziraphale managed to save from the fire down the steps to relative safety. The mage is leaning heavily on him, one arm across Crowley’s shoulders as they stumble downstairs too. They stop and heave deep breaths, once it becomes possible to do so. Crowley feels fluttery inside, unstable, as if he could break down and cry any moment. It’s stupid, Aziraphale is here with him, he didn’t die. It’s going to be all right now.

“You always come to save me, Crowley. That’s awfully nice of you,” the mage takes his hands and squeezes them gently. His fingers are smudged, his usually impeccably manicured fingernails are black with soot. 

“Shut up…” Crowley mutters, fighting his tears back with heroic effort.

“I think it’s rather attractive of you,” Aziraphale smiles up at him. “Who wouldn't like to be saved by a tall, dark, handsome, mysterious man? I find it very exciting for sure.”

They are in the middle of the hallway, uncaring of the people running up and down around them. Crowley’s eyes are opened wide behind his glasses and his breath comes fast. There’s a heat blossoming inside him, part very badly timed arousal, but largely a burning, consuming emotion. Love, he thinks. He’s in love. 

“Oh…” he says, and no better words come.

“Let me thank you,” Aziraphale whispers and kisses him. The outside world, the burning palace, Lucifer’s army, they all cease to exist. His fingers play with Crowley’s hair, his other hand pulls him close by the waist. His lips taste like smoke. Crowley makes a desperate sound in the back of his throat and deepens the kiss. 

“I see you managed to find him,” a dry voice says next to them. Dizzily, Crowley turns to find the young woman who pointed him in the right direction smirking at them.

“Miss Device,” Aziraphale greets her calmly, as if he snogged renegade mages in burning palaces every day. His hand finds Crowley’s and squeezes it gently. “Could you update us on what’s happening outside at the moment?”

“The Archmages have arrived. So did this Lucifer with his people, don’t ask me how they got in, they just appeared. So, everyone is rushing back now, and we’re trying to stop the spread of fire…”

Crowley looks at Aziraphale, thinks about begging him again to flee, knows it would be pointless. 

“Let’s see for ourselves,” he says rather, and they hurry on. They don’t let go of each other’s hands.

Aziraphale knows a side-door, so they use that instead of the main entrance, lurking behind pillars and bushes as they carefully approach the two groups facing each other in front of the Palace. The Archmages are easy to spot in their impeccable, pale clothing, so strikingly out of place in the chaos around them. There’s his old master, Michael, and Gabriel he recognises too. They both look older than he remembers, though not twenty-years older as he does. Archmages have their tricks. 

“Those are Masters Uriel and Sandalphon,” Aziraphale whispers, pointing at the other two figures.

Then there is Lucifer. Crowley didn’t expect to see him ever again. He thinks he should feel something. This is the man, after all, who’d once captured his heart, claimed his body, encouraged him to rebel, then abandoned him without a word. 

Crowley looks at him and thinks the man really didn’t age too well. Maybe it’s the side effect of excess dark magic, but he’s face is distorted, twisted. The bunch of people behind him, other renegade mages he deemed worthy to follow him, don’t look much better either. An emotion comes then; relief he’s not standing there with them. 

The members of the Order and the Fallen face each other. It doesn’t seem as if any magic duel happened yet. As much as they can hear from their vantage point, they are only exchanging insults.

Aziraphale tugs on his sleeve to get his attention and points to a teenage boy standing sullenly on the side. He looks so out of place; he could be a child from the city who doesn’t know better, if not for the immense amount of power radiating off him. Lucifer’s son, he supposes. He’s not sure if it’s luck or a curse that they don’t even have to look for him. 

Aziraphale starts to creep towards the boy, ignoring Crowley’s desperate gestures to stop, leaving him with no other choice but to follow him. They don’t get a chance to get too close though. A few steps away they are both grabbed in magic so strong they have no possibility to break, keeping them unrelentingly immobile. The boy turns towards them.

“Who are you?”

“Hi,” Aziraphale says with a smile he probably hopes to be winning, but is rather forced, understandably, given their situation. “I’m Aziraphale and this is Crowley here. I assume you are Lucifer’s son?”

“I’m Adam,” he doesn’t quite answer. Crowley groans. They don’t have much luck with people called Adam, do they?

“It’s nice to meet you, Adam,” Aziraphale lies through his teeth. “If it’s not a bother, could you release us? My back is killing me like this.” Without a word or any movement from the boy, Crowley finds he can move again. He cracks his neck and makes sure his glasses are in place. He really has no idea what else to do. 

“Are you with them?” Adam asks Aziraphale, nodding his head towards the Archmages. “You are dressed in the same funny way.”

“Ah, I’m… from the same place, yes. But I’m not with them, I’m here with Crowley.”

His head snap up at that, staring at Aziraphale with a very stupid grin breaking across his face. The boy looks just as bored with this revelation as he does with everything else. 

“Do you want to be here, with your father?” Crowley asks him, because he really doesn’t look as if he does. 

“No. He dragged me along for this whole thing. I don’t see what’s the big deal about this city or wanting to best those folks in the white clothes.”

“Where would you rather be?” Crowley prods, hoping against hope they will get somewhere with this.

“Back home. I miss my friends, my dog. My mum.”

“Did you father…”

“Lucifer is not my father,” he draws his brows together. “I guess, _technically_ he is, but for what it counts, he’s not. If you know what I mean.”

“I do,” Aziraphale says softly, before Crowley could. He looks at him in surprise, realizing he doesn’t know anything about the mage’s childhood. He fervently wishes to have a chance to ask him about it later. He hopes there will be later.

“I don’t know what’s the point of all these conquering and killings anyway. And this, with these people,” he gestures to the Archmages again. “They don’t seem to be very nice people, but why come all this way just to fight them? We were just fine on our own in our kingdom.”

“You can choose,” Crowley says urgently. “I mean, whether you want to do good or bad, that’s supposed to be your choice, not Lucifer’s. He and the Fallen apparently really wish to fight the Order. Fine, but why don’t they do it _elsewhere?_ Why does he need _you_ for it?”

“I could make them go somewhere else to fight,” Adam says slowly.

“You could?”

“I can do a whole lot of things,” he smiles for the first time. It’s rather more frightening than everything else combined. “But what happens if I do? Afterwards.”

“You could get a nice sum of ransom from Eden, your troops did invade the city, after all.”

“You could pay your soldiers from that and go home,'' Aziraphale adds. “Rule in peace. Grow your country and make a good neighbour.”

“Hmm. Alright. I think that’s a good idea, actually.”

“Is it?” Aziraphale asks the same time Crowley says, “It is.”

“How will you…” they fall silent. A whirlwind of power surrounds the boy, expanding quickly outwards. They are in the eye of the storm, where everything is tranquil, but outside their little circle is a raging magical typhoon. Aziraphale edges a step closer to him. Crowley takes his hand and squeezes. Whatever is about to happen, they are together in it. 

The heads of the Archmages whip in their direction. Gabriel shouts something they can’t hear, pointing at Aziraphale. He sees anger and fear on Lucifer’s once-beautiful face. The next instant the storm reaches and swallows them. The whirlwind of magic quiets down. The small square in front of the Palace is left empty, no trace of Ivory and Fallen mages to be seen as if they were never even there. It’s only the two of them and Adam.

“Where… where did they go?” Aziraphale asks in a very small voice. The boy shrugs. 

“A safe and quiet place, where they can fight all they want. Between universes.”

Aziraphale looks at Crowley with a very lost expression. He squeezes his hand again, trying to convey without words that he has no idea what’s going on either, but he’s here, and together they’ll get through it. 

An old man appears at the top of the stairs, dressed in very elaborate and expensive-looking clothing. 

“That’s the Metatron,” Aziraphale gasps. “I never saw him standing up, just behind his desk. Thought he might not have legs.”

“The Voice of the Empress?” Crowley is amazed. 

“If he’s a voice, is he supposed to have a body?” Adam frowns.

“It’s a… kind of a title,” Aziraphale explains. “He speaks for the Empress. If he says something, it’s like the Empress said it.”

“That’s stupid.”

“Well…” Aziraphale doesn’t seem to have any argument against that verdict.

The Metatron reaches them, and without sparing Crowley or Aziraphale a glance, he bows before the boy.

“Young Master Adam. The Empress invites you for…” he seems to falter for a moment before he visibly collects himself, “a chat and a nice cup of tea.”

“Hmm, I guess that’s fine, I have a bit of a time. I’m hungry too, though.”

“I’ll make sure we also serve some sandwich.”

“All right, then,” he turns to them. “Bye now, I guess. Thanks for the talk earlier. It was really helpful.”

They stand in stunned silence long after the two unlikely figures ascended the stairs. Life returns to the square; people brave out from the Palace, some come up from neighbouring streets to check what happened. A bird starts to sing, loud and clear, as if normality didn’t just shake and rearrange the world.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asks at last. “What did just happen?”

“Believe me, angel, I don’t have a single clue. But I think we should have dinner and we should get drunk.”

“I… that’s the best idea I heard in a while, my dear. I think I’d need to get washed and changed,” he tries, in vain, to brush off soot from his coat, managing only to spread grime everywhere. “Not sure if I can, though. My room was in the Eastern Wing.” he gestures to the smouldering ruins. The fire seems to be extinguished - a wonder how they managed that, but bigger miracles happened today - however that part of the Palace is in ruins. Crowley snaps his finger, getting all that dirt off from his angel.

“There. Not as good as clean clothes, but better. You can also stay at my place. Tonight. If you like.”

Aziraphale looks at the square where they saw Gabriel and the others disappear from. He’s silent, unaware that doubt eats at Crowley away with every second he doesn’t say anything. 

“Yes,” he tells him at last. “I’d very much like that.”

_TBC…_


	7. Autnum 2 -The First day of the rest of our lives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sex and the Epilogue
> 
> Stay safe these days, don't go out, read GO smut rather.

Unsurprisingly, considering that they are still, kind of, middle of a siege, there are no restaurants open. Aziraphale tells Crowley it’s all right, he can really get on by without dinner once. His stomach gives a loud grumble in protest, making Crowley peer at him over the top of his glasses doubtfully. He magics some bread, cheese and a bottle of wine from a closed shop, teleporting some coins in for them in exchange. Aziraphale kisses him as a thank you. There’s nobody on the streets to see them, and he wouldn’t care if there was anyway.

He feels lightheaded, confused and tired. Not to mention dirty and hungry. Crowley seems to be the only certain point in the universe right now.

They walk back to Crowley’s flat in silence. So much happened just in the last few hours, they need time to even start to process any of that. In the morning, Aziraphale was still trying to come up with a plan with which he could delay an army. Then the magical fire hit the Palace, and he rushed off to the library to save some of the precious books. All that fire, smoke and heat is sure to give him nightmares for long nights to come. But Crowley miraculously appeared and dragged him out. Then the surreal conversation with young Adam. What happened there? Where did Gabriel, the other Archmages, Lucifer and the Fallen really go? The whole day just seems unreal.

They eat the bread with cheese and some wrinkled apples Crowley has lying around. Well, Aziraphale eats most of it, though even Crowley gets a slice or two this time. The wine is cheap and sour, but they drink it anyway, straight from the bottle, as Crowley has no glasses.

“To the world,” Crowley toasts, handling the bottle over to him. Aziraphale echoes him and couldn’t help but smile.

Later, tipsy on sour wine, his host spills himself on the bed, all long arms and legs everywhere, while Aziraphale washes himself at his basin. Magic might make grime disappear, but it doesn’t leave him feeling clean. He’d think Crowley has fallen asleep, if he didn’t feel his eyes boring into him under half lowered lashes.

He crawls after him on the bed, clad only in his undergarments and the taller man makes space for him. They lay on their back, side by side. Crowley’s fingers find his and wrap around them. They are holding hands so much today. Aziraphale wouldn’t mind doing it other times as well, when it doesn’t feel as if their whole world is ending. Of all things he could lose, not being allowed to hold Crowley’s hands any more feels the most unbearable.

He turns to his side to cuddle close, and kisses Crowley’s long neck. He’s rewarded with a pleased sigh, so he does it again, and again, and again. The other man shifts, wrapping all his long limbs around him, coiling around him like a snake around a rabbit, or well, a dove. Like a very smooth, warm and lovely snake. Aziraphale runs a palm down his back, tugging his shirt free from his pants, pulling it up to touch bare skin, to count all pronounced bump of vertebra on his back.

Leisurely, they map each other’s body with light caresses and gentle kisses, as much as they can without giving up their embrace. Aziraphale is tired, his arousal builds slowly. His need is not urgent, but persistent, a want, a longing to feel Crowley against him, around him, inside him. To reassure him this is real, that they are both all right. 

“My dear, I’m thinking… will you fuck me tonight?” Crowley blinks at him, caught off guard. They have never done this before. “If you want it too, of course. We can do anything else if you’d rather.” Crowley has always seemed quite happy to let Aziraphale take him, so maybe he’s simply not into that sort of thing.

“If I want to? Fuck, angel, of course I want to,” he exhales a shaky breath, then starts to get Aziraphale out from the remaining of his clothing with determination. He sheds his own as well, quickly, throwing them carelessly on the floor. His flat is so tidy and clean, nothing like Aziraphale’s own living space, but he never bothers to find a place for clothes he sheds for sex. The mage finds his urgency quite endearing.

“Oh good, because I really want you to.”

Crowley looks at him with hunger, face open and vulnerable. Aziraphale loves catching him like this, without the cover of his glasses. He feels appreciated, as if he’s someone precious, someone worth the attention. 

As always, it both excites and embarrasses Aziraphale. He knows Crowley finds him attractive, he doesn’t seem to mind how he’s too pale, too hairy and soft around the waist. Not that he spent much time naked in front of anyone else before, but he doesn’t think anyone else would look at him like this, just as he wouldn’t look at anyone else the same way he looks at Crowley. But of course, Crowley _is_ really devilishly handsome and attractive. He evokes all these emotions in Aziraphale, want, tenderness, the need to be close to him. 

“Tell me what you like,” Crowley asks, kissing the inside of his thigh. 

“Well, you see, I don’t quite now,” he admits. “I’ve never done it this way before.” Most of his encounters were fast, hands or lips on his cock and his on another man’s. Some of his partners for the hour supposed a mage wouldn’t want to take it up the arse. He didn’t mind, he was happy enough in the more dominant role. Giving himself over like that did feel rather intimidating for him, but he trusts Crowley. He knows he wouldn’t ridicule him, wouldn’t hurt him. 

“Shit, angel, I… how’s that even possible? I’m sure men had all their wet dreams about this lovely arse,” he gives it a fond squeeze. Aziraphale snorts, but Crowley looks dead serious.

“I think your opinion is rather biased, my darling,” he squirms, getting embarrassed by such a praise.

“Nah, I don’t think it is.”

“Maybe I was waiting for the right man.”

Crowley might actually break his heart one day with the way he looks at him sometimes, so devastatingly vulnerable and unbelieving, when Aziraphale says something unexpectedly kind or flattering. He wanted to get the conversation away from the questionable loveliness of his buttocks, but it doesn’t mean what he said isn’t true. He waits until Crowley gets his expression under control, pretends he didn’t notice the look on his face in the first place, before he kisses him and rolls over to his stomach. 

“I did try out the lubrication spell on myself, you know,” he peers back over his shoulder. “So I… I do have some idea what to expect.”

Crowley closes his eyes and swallows.

“If you stay stuff like that,” he croaks in a hoarse voice, “I will be finished before we even start.”

Aziraphale turns away and smiles. A part of him, which might be just a bit of a bastard, one he tries to pretend doesn’t exist most the time, does rather enjoy this effect he has on Crowley. 

“Do you want me to? Slicken up myself?”

“No, no, I want to do it, if that's okay?” Aziraphale nods enthusiastically. “I think I saw you do it enough times now to manage the spell.”

Sure enough, when he slides fingers down his crack, they are coated with lube. He circles Aziraphale’s hole, rubbing against the tight ring of muscle soothingly. The mage sighs and puts his forehead down on his crossed arms, giving himself over to his lover’s ministrations.

Crowley reaches out to grab a pillow and he lifts his hips up so it can be pushed underneath him. He would be embarrassed about the position, arse high up and legs spread wantonly, if he wasn’t so turned on and oddly relaxed at the same time. When Crowley pushes the first finger in, it’s not met with any resistance.

He’s quite ready for a second one he thinks, but he doesn’t say so, letting Crowley do this at his own pace. He works him slowly, murmuring soft encouragements at him, until Aziraphale can take two, three of his fingers. There’s an uncomfortable stretch when he adds the tip of his thumb too, opening him up, but rather than wanting to pull away, it makes him long for something more, for Crowley to fill him.

“Please, my dear, my darling, I’m ready,” his voice is nowhere as steady as he’d like it to be. “Fuck me now.”

Crowley pulls his fingers out and places a gentle kiss just above his tailbone. 

“Tell me if it gets too much, angel.” Aziraphale nods, though he doesn’t think it could ever get too much. 

Peering back over his shoulder he can see Crowley taking hold of his own cock, giving it a few long strokes, coating it with lubricant, before lining it up, the tip of it pressing against his opening. 

Aziraphale drops his head and takes a deep breath, doing his best to relax. The breach isn’t exactly painful, but it’s uncomfortable and overwhelming and it’s difficult not to tense up. There’s a moment of panic when he wants to ask Crowley to stop, to pull out. It would be unbearably selfish of him, especially how he can feel the man tremble behind him with the effort to go slow, to make sure he doesn’t cause him pain, murmuring soft encouragements and rubbing his lower back, shooting and comforting. Aziraphale breathes through his trepidation until Crowley’s cock is firmly sheathed in his arse.

“All right there?” Crowley asks, his voice unsteady.

“Hmm-mm. Just start slowly,” he whispers back.

He does, just gentle rocking of hips, giving the mage plenty of time to get used to the feeling of being so full. The uneasiness goes away, giving way to pleasure, to a growing urgency for _more._

“Crowley?”

“Yeah, angel?”

“Fuck me, please.”

He gasps and snaps his hips in sharply. A definitely pleasant shiver runs down Aziraphale's spine.

“Ah, do that again.”

Crowley does, shifting behind him, urging Aziraphale to lift his backside higher. There’s a burn, but he hardly notices, pushing back, wanting to feel more. Crowley’s prick brushes against a spot inside that lights a firework of pleasure in him. _Prostate gland,_ his well-read mind helpfully supplies, while his body melts into a boneless puddle. 

“Was that a good sound or…” Crowley is slowing down, and he can’t have that.

“A good sound, a good sound,” he gasps, though he isn’t aware he even made any noise, “don’t you dare to stop.”

He doesn’t, thanks to all gods. He hits that spot again and again, powerful and lovely, and Aziraphale grabs the sheets and holds on for the ride.

Soon, Crowley’s thrusts became more desperate, more erratic. His fingers dig into Aziraphale’s hips, almost-painful and perfect.

“Angel, angel,” he keens, “I’m sorry, I can’t… can I…?”

“Oh yes, please my dear…”

Crowley shudders violently as he comes deep inside him, hips still pumping desperately, chasing his subduing pleasure. 

“I love you, gods, I love you,” he gasps.

There’s a bit of an awkward shuffling as he pulls out and Aziraphale rolls onto his back. He settles between his thighs and takes his cock into his mouth, sucking him off. It doesn’t take long at all for Aziraphale to get to the edge of orgasms too.

“Your fingers too, please, my dear,” he begs, and two of Crowley’s fingers slide back up into his arse, curving to press against that wonderful spot. Aziraphale comes, grabbing Crowley’s red hair and bucking up into his mouth too roughly but quite helpless to stop himself from doing so.

“That was quite amazing,” he sighs contentedly as Crowley lays down beside him. His backside is all slippery with the other man’s come, he feels dirty and quite pleased about it.

“I’m glad,” Crowley mumbles, not meeting his eyes. Aziraphale frowns, pushing himself up on an unsteady arm.

“Crowley,” he says and waits until he finally looks at him in the eye. His face is guarded. “I love you too, you know,” such an illegal word for a mage to say, especially to a cast out of the Order. “I love you,” repeats, just because he _can._

“You do?” Crowley’s voice is small, his snake-eyes wide.

“I most definitely do,” he settles down, embracing him close. “If you wanted to go for the dashing hero image who saves humble me from various, dangerous situations, hoping it will sweep me off my feet, I’m pleased to say it worked quite well.” 

Tension slowly leaves Crowley’s lean body. He shuffles closer to Aziraphale and puts on a cheeky grin.

“Yeah, angel. That was my dastardly plan, all along. You realized it too late.”

“I knew it,” they kiss, slow and tender. It’s strange, Aziraphale reflects, to feel so carefree and happy. Not just not-unhappy or even content. But happy-happy. 

“Crowley?” he whispers sometime later. The taller man mutters a half-asleep _hmmm_ as a response. “I’m thinking, have you ever been by the sea? Because I never was. Always wanted to see it, having read so much about how magnificent it is. I never travelled much, really.”

“No,” Crowley answers carefully, sounding rather more awake. “I can’t say I’ve been.”

“Toliman is right by the sea, isn’t it? The capital there has a huge harbour and everything, they say.” Crowley looks at him then, rolling onto his stomach and propping his chin up on Aziraphale’s chest, raising a questioning eyebrow. “It might be worth visiting… if you’d still want to go, that’s it,” he finishes in a whisper.

“Their wine is quite famous,” Crowley not-quite answers. “But almost impossible to get here.”

“Heard the theatres were quite a marvel, too.”

“Angel?”

“Yes, dear?”

“I’ll go with you to Toliman. But I’d go anywhere else or stay here with you as well, if that’s what you wanted.”

“I think I’d like to go. If I can go with you. The Archmages have disappeared, but we might want to be as far as possible if they were to ever reappear again. Who knows what Adam did and how long it’s going to last? Are you alright with that?”

“I am. Let’s do it, angel. Let’s elope together.”

They look at each other and laugh.

***

Margarita greets him with a cheerful neigh. He pats her neck and gives her an apple.

“You were bored here girl, weren’t you? Well, we’re going on a trip now.”

Technically the horse was assigned to him by the Order for personal use, so he doesn’t think it’s stealing that he’s taking her. He also buys another horse, a beautiful, black mare for Crowley. 

He wonders whether he should say goodbye to anyone. They went to visit Eve, her baby and her husband the morning after the army left from under the walls, only to be informed by a neighbour the family has left Eden. 

They are not the only ones; the whole capital is in disarray, with the enemy troops so quickly arriving and leaving. Technically, the soldiers have never even breached the walls of the outer circle, and Lucifer’s magic did damage only to the Palace and the nearby houses of Heaven. All in all, it wasn’t a bloody war, not with Adam’s intervention. Nobody knows what happened between him and the Empress, but peace is miraculously restored as if war never threatened. 

People who fled to the city are now leaving along with others, like Eve and her family or Crowley and him, who are hoping to start a new life somewhere else.

He wonders if anyone will miss him in the Palace, or from the Tower for that matter. If anyone will be angry or disappointed in him for leaving Eden. He finds he doesn’t care. For the first time in his life, he doesn’t feel guilty about doing what he wants.

Crowley waits for him at the gates. The horses flatten their ears when they get near. Aziraphale soothes them with gentle caresses and whispers.

“Is it a snake thing?”

“Nggh, can be. Or they just simply hate me, the bloody beasts. Look, angel,” despite the glasses shadowing his eyes, Aziraphale can tell he’s nervous. “I’ve never ridden a horse before.”

“Never worry about that, just hang on and I’ll teach you as we go. Not that I’m much of a master. But I bet you’ll be galloping at full speed soon.”

“We could just walk,” Crowley mutters, carefully approaching the animals. With Aziraphale’s firm hold on the reins and the horse’s mind, the black mare peacefully lets Crowley tentatively touch its neck. “Bently?” he asks, looking at the embodiment on the headpiece. “What kind of a name is that, for a horse?”

“I think that’s just a brand mark. You can name her however you want.”

“Nah, she’s already Bently, I think.”

Aziraphale smiles to himself as he helps Crowley clamber up the saddle. 

Nobody pays attention to the two riders leaving Eden, one on a grey horse in pale clothes, sitting with a ramrod straight spine in his saddle, the other dressed in all black on his black mare, hunched over, clutching the animal with long legs and arms desperately.

***

Aziraphale is right of course. It takes Crowley a few weeks to get used to the riding, and he uses magic to steady himself in the saddle still, but by the time they leave the southern border of the Kingdom of Eden, he gets the knack of it. He takes on the habit of breaking Bently into neck-breaking gallop and charging ahead, like a demon of speed.

Aziraphale always follows at a more reasonable pace on Margarita’s back. He’ll scold Crowley, who’ll just grin his usual, mischievous smile. He has never felt this joyful and unburdened, and he suspects that’s true for Crowley as well.

They are ready to start their new life, together. They are free.

_THE END_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are here, you've read all of this - thank you! If you want to make my day, please let me know what you think.


End file.
